


Perchance to Scream

by mommymuffin



Series: Shakespeare Was a Wolf [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bats, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Accidents, Drowning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fire, Insanity, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Nightmares, Rats, Sleep Deprivation, Spiders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 11:25:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mommymuffin/pseuds/mommymuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People start going insane and then wandering into the woods to die. It's got everyone stumped. Leave it to Stiles to find the answer. And the solution.</p>
<p>Sequel to "A Wolf by Any Other Name."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perchance to Scream

**Author's Note:**

> Miracle of miracles, this is finished! I promised you a sequel and here it is! It's only been forever!!
> 
> All right, real talk. I started this story almost immediately after I posted the first part of the series, which, if you will look at the date, was in May. Now, the fact that it eerily wound up being slightly coincidental with what is happening in Season 3b, which started only a few weeks ago, is just that: a coincidence. A pretty weird one admittedly, I mean dreaming issues and Japanese monster-things for real yo, but I swear it's just some strange happenstance. I am not psychic.
> 
> Moving on to the story itself. It's a little "yikes!" at times, so if you have a PHOBIA OF SPIDERS, BATS, OR RATS, I WOULD NOT READ THIS. Everything else shouldn't be too bad and really the parts with the critters is not too terribly descriptive, so maybe just have someone screen it for you before you try reading? Just be cautious please, dears.
> 
> Also, a note: this is post-season 2 canon divergent. SOMETHING happened with the Alphas, but I will never go into what did, just that stuff happened and Erica and Boyd are dead. :C I'm pretty much ignoring all of season 3, because I was writing this simultaneously with it at times. So. I do steal occasional bits of info though, like Derek's loft for example. But, really, I'm ignoring it.
> 
> Lastly, I AM SO SORRY FOR ANYONE WHO WAS WAITING FOR THIS. IT TOOK ME FOREVER, I KNOW. I WAS DOING LIKE FIVE OTHER STORIES AT THE SAME TIME AND THEY GOT FINISHED FIRST PLUS REAL LIFE THINGS AND IT JUST GOT SO FREAKING LONG (27K!) AND THEN I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT HAPPENED BUT SOMEHOW I FINISHED IT I AM SO SORRY IT TOOK ME FOREVER.
> 
> And on that note please enjoy~ Sequel to follow (eventually).

Sitting down and having breakfast with Derek Hale wasn’t as strange as Stiles would have thought.

Well, okay, it was pretty strange. But, it was nice, too. Very nice. Derek didn’t talk very much, which surprised Stiles about as much as the sun coming up in the morning did, but he seemed more content than usual sitting there with Stiles and eating bacon and toast and scrambled eggs, so Stiles couldn’t complain.

Plus, he was here. He was actually sitting in the kitchen having a meal with Stiles. Not to mention Derek had jerked both Stiles and himself off earlier _simultaneously_ , so the fact stood that the werewolf was _sticking around after sex_. Really. Nothing to complain about.

Besides, Stiles talked enough for the both of them, gleaning that Derek had been awake for about an hour before Stiles came down and had called Isaac to inform him the curse had been broken. Which had brought a smile to Stiles’s face.

The only time Derek spoke up without prompting was when he was staring at Stiles's throat.

"You should probably cover those up."

"What?"

"Your neck," Derek said, pointedly staring harder.

"What about my--oh." With an embarrassing blush Stiles realized that Derek was talking about the breathtaking hickeys the man had left there.

"Before your dad gets home," Derek added, sipping coffee.

“Uh—yeah, I should probably...uh. Hm.” Stiles looked stumped.

“How are you going to do that exactly?” Derek asked. “Do you have makeup?”

Stiles blinked at Derek. "Um. No."

"You never know with you, Stiles."

"Fair enough,” Stiles said. He thought for a moment and then lit up when the answer came to him. "I totally have something better than makeup though." Stiles got up from the table and disappeared for a minute. He came back carrying what looked like a wooden token in his hand.

"What is that?" Derek asked.

"A charm," Stiles said with a grin, then with pride, "I made it." He held it up for Derek to see the strange little marking carved into it, a straight line with five perpendicular lines running through it.

"And it's going to make those go away?" Derek asked skeptically. The thought of Stiles’s removing his bite marks displeased him greatly, but he kept it to himself.

"Not quite. Watch and be amazed." Stiles rubbed his thumb over it and closed his eyes in concentration. When he opened them, the bruising on his neck was completely gone. "Ta da!"

Derek blinked widely. "How did you…?"

"Wood from an oak tree, and the symbol _idad_ for yew. Stability and illusion. I, uh, made it...to hide things. Well, to hide myself actually, but invisibility is hard and I don't quite have that down yet. I can totally hide small things though. Like pencils. Or hickeys, as it turns out. They're still there, but they're concealed for now." Stiles beamed, pleased with his success.

Derek could only blink at him.

"What?” Stiles said. “I'm magic. You know that."

"I guess I didn't realize _how_ magic. Been practicing much?” Derek was staring him down pretty hard.

“Um, I guess.” Stiles sensed an interrogation coming on and considering he was about to get one from his dad, he opted to change the subject.

“So, is that my dad’s shirt?”

Derek looked away, clearly embarrassed. “And pants,” he said. “I’ll wash them before I return them.”

Stiles snickered.

“Your clothes wouldn’t fit!” Derek said. “Where else was I supposed to get any?”

Stiles’s eyes grew wide with delight. “Did you try to put on a pair of my pants?”

Derek rolled his eyes, which Stiles took as a yes.

Stiles had mercy on him and changed the subject again. “My dad should be home soon,” he mused. “I wonder how he’s going to take the whole, you know—werewolf thing.”

Derek shrugged one shoulder. “Don’t expect him to accept it as easily as you did. You had it figured out before Scott did.”

Stiles scoffed. “That I did. Seriously, what would any of you do without me?”

When Derek didn’t respond, Stiles looked up. Derek was gazing at him intently, though his expression was as blank as ever. It made Stiles squirm.

Finally, he said, “Let’s not find out,” and Stiles latched onto the fact that Derek had basically just invited him to stick around permanently.

The teen’s mind once more circled back to the same thing it had been circling back to all morning: _them_. Derek and Stiles. Stiles and Derek. Together. As a unit. As one. A pair. A couple.

A couple?

Was that what they were? Stiles didn’t know, and he didn’t think Derek wanted to talk about it. The question still stood. And Stiles was still too afraid to ask.

He supposed it didn’t matter too much though. Who was going to know really? Scott would. Stiles would tell him what had happened himself, and even if Scott made faces the entire time and bemoaned that it had been Derek, he would accept it in the end. Isaac would, because Stiles figured that with Derek’s newfound appreciation for his loved ones he wouldn’t keep it from his beta, and Isaac probably wouldn’t care too much. Peter would know, because he’s a creep. Period. Whether Derek told him or not. Somehow he would know. He probably already did. Stiles didn't care what Peter thought either way, so that was just fine. And he wasn’t telling his dad.

Speaking of the Sheriff.

Derek’s eyes slid to the doorway of the kitchen, evidently picking up on the Sheriff getting out his car and walking up to the front door.

“I see that supernatural hearing is in working order. Good, I wouldn’t want you to tarnish your reputation as a complete creeper after all,” Stiles snarked at Derek.

Derek shot Stiles a look, but didn’t reprimand him.

Sure enough the sound of a key being shoved into the lock and turned reached their ears and the front door swung open shortly after. The Sheriff appeared in the doorway, no doubt lured in by the smell of bacon. He stopped short when he spotted Derek.

“Derek,” he said, “good to see you’re back to your usual self.” Then, directed at Stiles, “Broke the spell then, I see.”

Stiles shrugged. “We’re still not really sure how actually. He just changed back in the middle of the night. But, hey, we’re not complaining.”

“Uh-huh,” the Sheriff said, and it was in that tone of voice that made Stiles anxious. It meant questions were coming. Questions he was not going to like.

“And he stuck around for breakfast. That’s nice,” John said. It was a statement, but the question was clearly implied.

“I figured I’d stick around for that talk I owe you, Sheriff,” Derek said.

“That’s awfully good of you, then,” John said, eyeing the two of them shrewdly. Somehow it didn’t seem like a compliment. “Let me go change clothes. Be right back.”

Stiles waved at him, though it looked more like a severe muscle spasm than a coordinated movement. The huge grin that was plastered on his face fell away as soon as his father disappeared from view.

“Oh my god,” he said to Derek, face full of dread, “I can’t do this. Oh my god, I lied, I take it back, let’s make something up, hurry before he gets back.”

“Stiles,” Derek said calmly, firmly. “You’re overreacting.”

Stiles gave him an incredulous look. “Over— _Overreacting_? Derek, this is my father and I am about to explain to him that the supernatural is real. _I think this is the appropriate reaction_.” Stiles covered his face with his hands and bemoaned, “He’s already suspicious of all this. God, I’m going to be lucky if he doesn’t have me committed.”

“He won’t have you committed. I’m here. He’ll have proof.”

“He won’t after he kills you and hides the body!”

Derek gave him an exasperated look. “You’re being ridiculous. Look, your dad already knows that there’s something going on that he doesn’t know about and he probably has an inkling that it’s something he can’t explain either, or he would have figured it out by now. He’s probably going to be _thankful_ for finally getting the truth. Even if it is a little...bizarre.”

Stiles blinked a few times, looking at Derek in a new light. “Wow, that...actually makes a lot of sense.”

“Your dad is a cop, Stiles. Above all else, he wants to know what happened. What _really_ happened.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Whew. Okay. I can do this.”

“Just tell him the truth about everything. It’ll be fine.”

“Well, maybe not... _everything_.”

Derek lifted his eyebrows, peering at Stiles over the rim of his mug, when he brought it to his mouth. “Are you the one who needs to be taught a lesson by a witch next?”

“No, no. No curses necessary. I can be truthful.” Stiles paused and Derek could tell his mind was going a mile a minute. This was confirmed when Stiles asked, “What do you think I’d turn into though? I mean, like, what animal would I be?”

“A squirrel,” Derek answered without hesitation.

Stiles made an offended noise. “I would not! I would be something cool, like, like—a fox! Yeah, a fox! I’d be a fox!”

“You’d be a squirrel, Stiles. You can ask anyone.”

Stiles didn’t respond to that. Derek looked up confused, considering Stiles always had a response to everything. He was smiling goofily at Derek.

“What?” Derek asked.

“Nothing, just…I like it when you say my name. Without, you know, yelling at me. You do that now. Regularly.”

Derek grunted in response. Just to be stubborn, Stiles was sure.

“You’re dad’s coming down the stairs.”

Stiles quickly straightened up and looked to the doorway. As soon as his dad appeared, he asked, "Dad, if I got turned into an animal what animal would I be?"

"A squirrel," his dad said without hesitation and Stiles's jaw dropped. Derek smirked behind his cup. The Sheriff took a seat and asked his son, “Am I allowed to have any of this?” indicating the bacon.

“Sure,” Stiles said and John’s expression twisted.

“You’re giving me bacon,” he said and it sounded like an accusation. The man glanced between the two younger males. “I’m not going to like this talk, am I?”

“Dad,” Stiles said bluntly, “I don’t think any of us are.”

“Wonderful. Can I at least eat first?”

“That would be a great idea,” Stiles replied, thankful for the stall. He glanced at Derek, who was resolutely looking at his coffee cup braced in one hand. He glanced up when he sensed Stiles staring at him. Stiles looked nervous. Of course, he was nervous. He was about to admit to his father that he’d been running around with supernatural creatures and almost dying on a pretty regular basis. Who wouldn’t be nervous? Derek gave him a slight nod that he hoped was reassuring. Stiles seemed to take comfort from it regardless, so that was good.

“Don’t,” Stiles said sternly when his father reached for a fourth piece of bacon. “Nuh-uh. I said you could have _some_. Not a heart attack worth of some.”

The Sheriff sighed, belabored. “We’ll see if I get anymore after this conversation. Who wants to start?”

“I will!” Stiles jumped to say. He knew the last thing he wanted was for his dad to start. This would turn into an interrogation real quick.

John cast a suspicious look at him, but let it go. “Fine,” he said. “Shoot.”

“Okay, so, um,” Stiles said, looking over at Derek, “it would probably be good to start with the beginning...”

“Usually is,” John said. “And how far back is that exactly?”

“Well. You may have noticed there have been a lot of things going on recently that, to be quite frank, have been kind of weird and mostly unexplained...”

“I’ve noticed,” the Sheriff said in a barbed deadpan.

“And they all started about the time...” Stiles hesitated, shooting a sympathetic glance at Derek, “about the time Laura Hale’s body was found in the woods. Right?”

“ _Right_.”

Suddenly the Sheriff was giving Derek a look that Stiles did not like in the slightest.

“But let it be said here and now that it is true that Derek didn’t have anything to do with her death or any of the murders that started happening right after that!”

The Sheriff still looked skeptical, but seemed to accept that for now. “Let me guess: it wasn’t Kate Argent either, was it?”

“Not...really...no...” Stiles said and winced.

John sighed heavily. “And the alternate explanation that you have for all of this is…?” he asked impatiently.

Stiles didn’t hesitate, just scrunched up his mouth like it was full of lemon juice and said, “Werewolves.”

The Sheriff didn’t respond for a long time. Finally, he said, “Werewolves? That’s the best you can come up with? A mythical creature is responsible for all those deaths?”

Stiles laughed, high pitched and nervous. “See, that’s the thing. Werewolves are not so much mythical as they are...elusive.”

“Stiles. Are you trying to tell me werewolves are real?”

“Yes. Yes, I am. Derek?” Stiles turned to Derek, his eyes pleading.

“I assure you, Sheriff. Werewolves...” Derek said as he let the change overcome him, “are very real.”

The Sheriff gaped as Derek sprouted fur and fangs. The man’s eyes turned red and deadly claws tipped the fingers wrapped around the coffee mug. John jolted and his chair made a clattering noise. His hands gripped the table tightly. It was probably the only thing keeping him in place.

Stiles was very thankful his dad had left his gun and holster in the front cabinet. He said cautiously, “Dad...Take a deep breath.”

His father did as instructed.

“Derek, thank you, that’s enough,” Stiles said, eyes never leaving his father.

Derek shifted back and waited.

The Sheriff took a few more deep breaths that barely bordered on controlled. He finally looked at his son.

“ _Stiles_.”

“I know. It’s a little hard to wrap your head around. Just...one step at a time.”

“Stiles. Werewolves are real. There is a werewolf...sitting at our kitchen table.”

“Dad, that’s rude. He’s right there.”

"Sorry, Derek,” he breathed out. Then, he took a long look at Derek before saying, “Derek Hale is a werewolf.” It was the sound of him putting together all of the pieces. “So was your sister. And your uncle. And your entire family.”

“Not my _entire_ family,” Derek corrected. “There were humans in my pack, mostly children.”

Stiles held himself back from comforting Derek in front of his father, even though he desperately wanted to lay a hand on Derek’s arm to let him know that not _everyone_ he cared about was gone.

Stiles didn’t think the pain of talking about dead family members would ever go away. His hadn’t yet.

The Sheriff’s features softened in sympathy. “Derek...I’m sorry. It was a tragedy. And an unexplained one for a long time. We found out it was Kate, but the motive never quite fit. Though I think I know what it was now.”

Stiles nodded. “She was a hunter. Still a crazy motherf—uh, woman. But, yeah. She was trying to kill the werewolves in Derek's pack and didn’t care that there were humans and children among them. And! Might I add, Derek’s family was good. They weren’t the bad kind of werewolves. They never hurt anyone.”

Derek nodded, solemn and sad. Stiles couldn’t help it when he reached out and gripped Derek’s wrist then. Even though he definitely shouldn’t be doing that in front of his dad if the look he gave their touching skin was any indication.

Derek cleared his throat.

“Kate Argent was a terrible woman. She came from a long line of hunters. The Argents have in fact hunted werewolves since the first werewolf.”

“The entire family?” the Sheriff questioned and Derek nodded. “Then...”

“Yep. All of them,” Stiles said. “Mr. Argent is retired though. And Allison was only one because of...things...happening...”

"So, Victoria's _suicide_ …"

"Not so much," Stiles said.

The Sheriff nodded slowly, absorbing the information and filing it away into the proper places, stepping back to look at the picture he was getting. There was a piece missing.

“Now, how do you fit into all this, son? Because...because you’re a _witch_?” His dad said the word like he didn’t quite know what to do with it. Derek, however, picked up on the faint hint of fear that lingered behind it. Though it was not fear _of_ his son, but _for_ him.

“No. I only recently discovered my witch-powers or whatever they are,” Stiles said with a wave of his hand.

“Then...” The Sheriff got a look on his face that was somewhere around contemplative and annoyed. Then, he said conclusively, “Scott.”

“Bingo.”

“How?”

“He was bitten by an Alpha werewolf the night we went looking for—“ Stiles paused, glancing guiltily at Derek, “...Laura's body…”

“I knew you weren’t out there _alone_ ,” John said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles said dismissively.

“I wish he had that much sense _now_ ,” Derek remarked.

“Hey! Whose side are you on?”

Derek shrugged.

“Wow. Thanks.”

“Anyway,” the Sheriff said, steering the conversation back. “An _Alpha_ werewolf bit Scott? What exactly does that mean? What are werewolves that aren’t Alphas? And you kept mentioning "packs"?”

“Derek,” Stiles said, sitting back to let Derek explain.

After two hours of explanations from Derek, story-telling from Stiles, and seven cups of coffee between them, the Sheriff leaned back and laced his hands over his stomach, his mouth turned down in a considering frown.

“So, that’s what really happened?” he asked, even though it seemed redundant.

Stiles nodded. “You just got a play-by-play of the Beacon Hills Supernatural Creatures Highlight Reel.”

His father did not take humor in Stiles’s brilliant, comedic prose. John stared Stiles down for a moment and then turned that stern gaze on Derek, before settling back on his son. Eventually, he spoke again.

“I can’t say I like how involved you’ve been in all of this, son.”

Stiles swallowed, but didn’t break his father’s stare.

“And I can’t say I approve of how you’ve been handling things as Alpha, Derek.”

Derek held the Sheriff's gaze, when it found him again, well aware of his failures.

John sighed. “But, I think you’ve been managing so far. And you seem to both be growing from it. Learning from each horrible, life-threatening situation you find yourselves in.”

Stiles grimaced at the use of the term life-threatening.

The Sheriff continued. “I know I can’t stop you, Stiles. From being involved in all this crazy, supernatural business. You're not going to leave Scott on his own, if for nothing else. But, I want to be in the loop now. I want to be the one involved. And Derek? If you ever need help with anything, even if it’s just advice, you come to me. You understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Derek said with a short nod.

“And Stiles, so help me God, if you ever get kidnapped again, I will lock you up myself.”

“Yessir!” Stiles said with a mock salute.

“Good. Now, I’d like a word with Derek. Alone.”

“What? But—“

“That wasn’t negotiable,” the Sheriff said, shooting his son a stern look.

Stiles’s mouth clacked shut. He shot Derek an apologetic look before leaving the room.

There was a small pause and then John said, “Not far enough, Stiles.”

“Dammit.” The voice clearly came from just on the other side of the door frame.

They listened to the footsteps on the stairs, Derek following the sound of his heartbeat into his room, then the Sheriff leveled a look at the werewolf. Derek braced himself for whatever came out of the Sheriff's mouth.

“A little in over your head, huh, son?”

Well, that certainly wasn't what he had been expecting. The question surprised Derek and he let it show on his face for a brief moment before pulling the blank mask firmly back into place.

“I never thought I’d be Alpha one day,” Derek admitted. “It was supposed to fall to my sister. And it did. For a while.”

John nodded slowly the flood of new information settling together into his mind to form a whole picture of the man, who kept getting arrested for things he didn't do, that finally made sense.

“I’m sorry, Derek. You didn’t deserve any of that.”

Derek wanted to disagree, but all he said was, “Thank you, sir.”

“Supernatural happenings aside, I want to talk to you about something else. When you were a wolf, I asked my son what exactly his relationship with you was. Stiles...Stiles isn’t very good at lying. I always know when he is. But, he is good at working words in his favor. And avoiding the truth without actually having to lie.”

Derek snorted. At the Sheriff’s inquiring look, he said, “I’m aware. Werewolves can hear a lie in a person’s heartbeat. He’s gotten very good at twisting words around to where his heartbeat doesn’t stutter.”

“Sounds about right,” John said. “My point to that was that if I asked him again, he would manage to tell me something that wasn’t the truth without actually lying to me. So, I’m asking _you_ , Derek. Because I don’t think you’ll lie to me.”

The Sheriff was playing his cards right. He knew that if Derek was involved with Stiles _that_ way that Derek wouldn’t benefit by lying to his father. On the other hand if they weren’t together he wouldn’t have anything to hide.

“What is your relationship with my son, Derek?”

Derek didn’t answer immediately.

“Stiles is important to me.”

“How important?”

“Very.”

John sighed through his nose. “I _did_ glean how to kill werewolves from your little story time, you know. If you ever hurt him—“

Derek cut him off quickly. “Sheriff. When I was a wolf I promised I wouldn’t hurt your son. That promise still stands.”

The Sheriff observed him, measuring his merit, of which Derek knew he had little. John said, “I don’t like this. But, I think it’s too late for me to have a say. I’ll be watching you, Derek.”

Derek nodded.  He paused, then decided to add, “I would die for him, sir.”

John nodded, too. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. You’re not a bad person, Derek. Make sure it stays that way.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Sheriff stared at nothing in particular for a beat before asking, “What do you know about this...witch thing?”

“Stiles’s powers? Not much. My family had a few friends who were magic, but I was never around them very much. I was just a kid. Deaton knows more than he lets on. I don’t know if he would give you straight answers or not, but you could try.”

John nodded.

“Sheriff...” Derek began hesitantly. “I know he has great potential. I can smell it on him, when he’s reading spell books or organizing his herbs.”

“He has _herbs_? Oh, god...” the Sheriff put his face in one hand.

Derek let a small smile slip over his lips at the Sheriff’s lamentation. He tried to ease his fatherly troubles. “He’s smart, Sheriff. Whatever he decides to do with his magic, he’ll do the right thing. And I’ll be there.”

“Fine, fine. This all beyond me anyway. And Derek?” The Sheriff gave him a level look. “I meant it about you coming to me. Anytime. You don’t have a whole lot by way of support network. So, know that I’m here.”

Derek nodded curtly. “Thank you, Sheriff. That means a lot.”

A warm smile crossed the Sheriff's face. "You're welcome. Now, you better get upstairs and let him know I didn't kill you."

Derek smirked. "I dunno. I think I could use another cup of coffee."

The Sheriff chuckled. "Be my guest."

A peaceful moment passed and then the Sheriff asked, “Is that my shirt?”

Derek looked deeply into his coffee and said, “I’ll be glad to wash it before I return it. And the pants.”

John glanced at the sweats and then continuing to stare at them said, “Was my son awake when you woke up completely naked?”

Derek went very still and, avoiding eye contact, said, “I probably shouldn’t keep Stiles waiting any longer. Thank you for the clothes.”

“Uh-huh,” the Sheriff said and mercifully let Derek retreat.

Despite the fact that Derek hurried up the stairs, by the time he was actually standing in Stiles's bedroom the boy was still practically a basket case.

"Ohmygod, you're still in one piece. What did he say?"

"Nothing. Your dad's a nice guy."

Stiles scoffed. "Well, duh. He's only the greatest person on the planet. But, what did he _say_? You were down there forever!"

Derek shrugged.

"You are infuriating," Stiles stated simply.

"Said the pot to the kettle," Derek shot back.

Stiles gaped at him. "Rude. Anyway…" Stiles hesitated noticeably before speaking again. "Is everything okay, then?"

Derek knew Stiles was asking so much more than what he'd voiced. He was asking if there were any lasting effects of the spell or if Derek felt like himself; he was asking if his dad had done or said anything that Derek was worried about; he was asking if Derek was okay with their new relationship.

The answer was that Derek didn't know.

He felt fine, but at the same time like he was too small for his body, like it didn't quite fit anymore, like the shoes he was filling were too big for him. He knew the Sherriff would make good on his promise if Derek hurt Stiles, but Derek didn't plan on letting that happen even though things like that usually wound up being out of his control, so the Sheriff’s words may or may not be a valid concern for the werewolf. He certainly didn't know if he could handle his relationship with Stiles as _more_.

He wanted to be around Stiles--twenty-four seven. Just wanted to curl up around him and never leave. Stiles was the safest place Derek had in the whole world right now. With Stiles he was calm and content, which was strange considering how off-the-wall the teen usually was. But, Derek was sure it was those exact things that made Stiles so comfortable for him to be around. The boy's vibrancy in everything he did, his inane chatter that held hidden gems about him if you only listened closely, his sincere smile and his ability to always make sure everything was okay. It was all a part of what made Stiles so precious to him. The few times since Derek had met Stiles that the boy had been excluded from one of Derek’s plans, the plan had gone horribly wrong and it was no doubt because Stiles was the one secretly holding them all together, the glue that made them a book instead of a hodgepodge of pages that didn't make any sense. Derek knew Stiles made him better. And that was why he was so sure that becoming closer to him was a mistake: because he knew he must make Stiles worse. Derek’s darkness was suffocating; it would surely stifle the life out of the boy, stamp out the flame that burned in him so brightly. Derek would extinguish him.

Which was why he knew he couldn't stay. He knew that he had said he would, but he couldn't. Not if it meant hurting Stiles.

"Wanna stick around and watch a movie or something?" Stiles asked, eyes bright.

Derek found an excuse easily enough. "I should go see Isaac."

Stiles nodded, and he at least didn't smell completely miserable, just slightly disappointed. "Right. You should definitely do that. Do not neglect your beta. Bad, bad Alpha." The grin let Derek know Stiles didn't really think he was a poor Alpha. Even if the facts said otherwise.

"Later, then," Stiles said waving him off.

"Later," Derek lied.

He headed for the window and Stiles jumped out of his chair. "No, no, no! Dad's home. Use the front door."

The sentence only served to remind Derek how very much he shouldn't be there.

Downstairs, the Sheriff watched him leave.

~~~

A body turned up in the woods the next day.

Pale and gaunt, it appeared the man had died of natural causes.

_Appeared_ being the keyword here.

The police report would state that the man, one Alexander Thompson, had died of starvation and dehydration in combination with the harsh conditions of the woods, supposedly after going completely loony and getting lost in the woods in the middle of the night in the first place. The fact that he was wearing his pajamas and no shoes supported the insanity theory. Skewing their theory though were the little round burns on his chest, five of them. They had no explanation for those.

Regardless, natural causes seemed like a reasonable conclusion. However, the humans who found him and the police who investigated the scene didn’t possess the supernatural senses that Derek did. They couldn’t _smell_ him.

Werewolf noses easily picked up on the out-of-place scent hanging around the body. While dead bodies normally smelled, well, _dead_ , this one also smelled scared. Terrified, actually. This body smelled like fear and something that reminded Derek of emptiness.

So much for keeping his distance.

Standing in Stiles's bedroom a few hours after the news had reached them Derek told the teen, “It smelled...wrong.”

“Wrong, how?” Stiles asked from where he was hunched in front of his laptop.

“Empty,” he said.

An eyebrow rose on Stiles’s forehead as he turned to look at him. “Empty. What does empty smell like?”

Derek shrugs, shakes his head a little. “Like something was missing. Something that shouldn’t have been.”

Derek could see the exact moment that Stiles’s brilliant mind latched onto an idea that Derek’s words had produced, a gleam in his eye that the werewolf wished he could capture and put on paper and keep forever, folded away in his wallet where he could look at it whenever he wanted. Stiles’s spark, he realized belatedly. That’s what it was. The source of his power, the center of his being.

Dutifully, Derek waited while Stiles quickly said, “Hold, please,” and flipped around in his chair to attack his laptop with flying fingers. He turned back around, triumphant.

His answer was, “A soul.”

Derek raised a brow, clearly needing more.

“That’s what the body was missing,” Stiles clarified. “A soul. Something everyone has, right? Something that could be taken? Whatever we’re dealing with, it steals souls. Whether it eats them or sells them or keeps them for a rainy day, I dunno. But, it’s taking them.”

Derek turned that over in his mind. It sounded right.

“I guess I never really realized what a soul smells like until there wasn’t one.”

Stiles nodded. Then, frowned. “You can actually smell a soul?” he asked doubtfully.

Derek flicked his eyes toward the ceiling. “No. But, every human body, every living thing has a particular...core scent that the rest of their unique scent builds off of. That’s what was missing from the corpse. That essence that makes someone…“

“Whole,” Stiles finished. The word hung heavily in the air. A moment later, Stiles frowned and asked, "Isn't your soul _supposed_ to leave your body after you die?"

Derek shrugged. "I guess."

"So, why did this dead body smell so different to you?"

“You'll have to ask Deaton. I don't know why it smelled different, I just know that it did." Derek added, "I didn’t find anything else in the woods. No sign of it."

Even though he knew the answer already, Stiles asked, “Any idea what it is?”

“No,” Derek said. “But, let’s hope it was just passing through.”

"We can _dream_ , right?"

~~~

Another body turned up after that, eight days after the last.

Deaton had no real answers for what it might be, but he did tell Stiles that it seemed like the souls were being separated from the body while the victims were _still alive_ , hence the smell of wrongness that Derek had picked up on. According to Deaton the “normal” smell of a human being would linger beneath the scent of death for a while, clinging to the body, before fading completely. This body however had no typical human scent left as it had been hollowed out supernaturally. He likened it to pouring water out of a glass; there would still be droplets of water clinging to the surface of the glass, even if one emptied it completely. The scent of water would still be noticeable. This attack left the victim as if there had never been any water at all.

Peter also didn't know anything, only that it must be rare or it would be easier to identify. He backed up Deaton’s theory about the soul-cleaving though.

Derek managed to show up only long enough to exchange information with Stiles and then, disappear again until the next time. Stiles was starting to grow upset by his behavior. But, then, he figured they had a supernatural murderer running around and maybe—just maybe—that took precedence over their budding relationship. He let it go for now, sticking with that theory and occupying himself with research, but he still couldn’t help feeling like Derek was avoiding him.

After a third body was found Stiles surrendered and visited his dad about it.

The Sheriff glanced up at him when he walked in and sighed. “I figured you’d show up sooner or later.”

“Dad,” Stiles said, smiling too wide. “So. How ‘bout them murders?”

John sighed. “What do you know?”

“We’re 99.99% sure it’s supernatural,” Stiles said.

“Why?” the Sheriff prompted.

“Well, I’m sure you’ve noticed the eight days thing,” Stiles directed at his father, though his eyes were travelling the ceiling.

He nodded. “I have.”

“And everyone around them reports that they all go crazy a few days before they wander into the woods and die, right?”

“Right.”

“Well. Here’s what Beacon Hills’ finest have been missing. Their souls have been taken.”

The Sheriff cocked an eyebrow. “And you came to that conclusion how?”

“Derek’s sniffer,” Stiles answered proudly, then his smile quickly dimmed when he remembered Derek's accomplishments probably weren't anything for him to be proud of. “He identified the _lack_ of a scent on all the bodies and I made the logical conclusion that it was a soul.”

“So, we have some sort of soul-eating supernatural serial killer running around?”

“That is our best guess, yes,” Stiles said.

"Great."

“We don’t know what it is though. We were hoping...maybe you could give us more to go on?”

The Sheriff considered this for a moment, then nodded. “I suppose you and...the pack...would have a better chance of figuring this out than I would. Sit down.”

He learned that all three vics were artistic in their occupations. One was an architect, one was a concept artist for an ad agency, and one was a composer.

They had little more than they had started with, but Stiles still continued to research, his mind half on the unknown monster and half on the unknown status of his relationship with Derek. He knew the homicidal creature came first, so that was where he focused his efforts. But, Derek’s cold shoulder still twisted around in the back of his mind and Stiles found himself planning to test Derek the next chance he got.

~~~

Derek climbed through Stiles’s window at half past two. Stiles was still wide awake, hunched over his laptop, tapping the keys as he scrolled down the hundredth web page.

“Find anything?”

Stiles’s head popped up and he blinked at Derek, clearly startled.

Derek frowned. “Did you not hear me open the window?”

“You’re a flipping werewolf, Derek. Your silent creature-of-the-night powers transfer to doors and windows, maximizing your stealth, okay?” Stiles rambled with a flip of his hand. “And, no. Not really. I haven’t found much. I can’t pin down what this thing is.”

“How long have you been at this?”

“Since I got back from telling Deaton what we found.”

“Go to bed. Refresh your brain and try again tomorrow.”

Stiles sighed melodramatically and shut his laptop. “Fine,” he consented, rising from his chair. He traversed the room to stand in front of Derek. Boldly reaching up to slide his hands over Derek’s jaw line, he purred, “But, only if you come with me.”

Derek jerked back before Stiles’s lips could even get close to him. Stiles’s hands grasped at empty air where the werewolf had just been and his expression crumbled so completely, Derek almost wrapped the teen up in arms just to make that look go away.

“So, it was just a one-time thing, huh?” the boy said in an emotionless tone.

“Stiles,” Derek said, wanting to protest without encouraging the teen.

“No, Derek. It’s fine. I should have known I didn’t mean anything to you. I’m sure you were just happy you were human again. _Really_ happy.”

“That’s not true,” Derek thundered.

Stiles flinched at the striking tone of voice. His bright eyes studied Derek for a quick moment before he shook his head slightly and shrugged.

“Then, why won’t you kiss me? Why won’t you touch me at all? Why are you _avoiding_ me? You said you were thankful for me…You said you’d never leave...” The hurt was clear in the teen’s voice.

"Stiles. You are sixteen."

Stiles's face suddenly drew up tight and everything about the boy came to scream stubborn and defensive.

"He said something to you, didn't he? My dad,” Stiles accused.

Derek didn't answer and Stiles laughed at him.

"What? Scared he'll arrest you again? You should know your way around the interrogation rooms pretty well by now, I'd say," Stiles spat, something like disdain on his tongue.

Derek's expression morphed into something dark.

"Wouldn't be the first time you've gotten me arrested."

Stiles's eyebrows popped at that, caught off guard by such a stinging comeback.

"Oh. Oh, that's right. It was my fault. Because you weren't being a completely suspicious stalker or anything the first time I met you."

"You were trespassing," Derek grit out.

"Yeah? So, what if we were? You could have at least made some noise and come stomping through the woods like a normal person!"

"Maybe I was trying to scare you so you would stay the hell away!"

"Oh, is that what you want, Derek? For me to stay the hell away? Fine! But only if you promise to first!" Stiles shouted.

"Stiles!"

"No! Get out! I don't care anymore, Derek. You wanna avoid me? _Fine_. Leave."

Stiles breathed heavily, struggling against the weight of his anger pressing down on his chest, like it was trying to suffocate him, smother him until the anger was all that was left. He refused to look at Derek; Derek refused to look anywhere but him.

Neither spoke for a painstakingly long time.

Stiles finally erupted again, turning his back completely to Derek. "Did you lose the ability to understand English?" he practically snarled. "I said "get out." You know where the window is. Now, _get out_."

Derek blew out a harsh breath through his nose. The taste of Stiles’s bitterness in his mouth provoked him into action. He turned sharply to leave and was gone before the breeze passed through the window.

Stiles turned on his heel and slammed the window shut, the sound carrying angrily out across the night. Sliding down the wall next to it, he pulled out his cell phone and called his dad.

At the sound of his father's voice crackling through the phone, Stiles felt tears pricking his eyes.

"What did you say to Derek?" his voice came out a lot more broken than he had intended.

There was a short pause on the phone, then, "Stiles? What in the world happened? Are you crying? Did Derek hurt you?"

"No! ...Yes...I don't know..."

"Stiles. What happened?" the Sheriff asked calmly.

"We had a fight."

John Stilinski nodded, though his son couldn't see it. "What about?"

"About the fact that he's avoiding me like I'm the embodiment of the Black Plague. What did you say to him?" Stiles demanded.

"Nothing."

"Dad."

"Nothing, I swear! I didn't say anything to him. Not regarding you. Not really."

Stiles's mouth flattens. "What does "not really" mean?"

The Sheriff sighed. "I mean...it was implied."

"Dad!"

"Stiles. Derek is a grown man."

"Dad. Did you not hear the tale of all the things I've done in the past few months? I've lit people on fire, Dad. I am old enough to decide who I want to “be with”."

The noise John makes is the type of moan only a parent can truly muster. "Yes, Stiles. I heard the story about you _almost dying repeatedly_."

"Then, you know Derek is probably one of the least dangerous supernatural people I've come across.”

"Do you even hear yourself?"

"Yes. Dad, look. Derek has only ever saved my life. Even when he was an _actual_ wolf, he protected me."

"I realize that, Stiles. But, that doesn't mean anything. No one is born a criminal. Everyone grows up for a while, completely fine, but then one day they stop being fine and do something that hurts someone else."

"Can you please stop being a cop for like five seconds? That's not true anyway. A lot of people show psychopathic or sociopathic tendencies from a very early age, even before they start talking sometimes--"

"Fine! _Most_ people, then! Stiles, that is not the point and you know it," John argued.

He was met with silence on the other end of the line.

"Stiles, I'm just worried that...Derek is just a wolf in a man's clothing."

"Do you think that about Scott?"

"Scott is...your best friend. I know Scott. I didn't even know you knew Derek Hale until a few weeks ago. I've known Scott for years."

"Scott has come closer to killing me than Derek ever has," Stiles said quietly.

The Sheriff mulled that over for a moment. "It doesn't change the fact that I still don't know Derek."

"Then, get to know him," Stiles said.

The Sheriff was surprised by the decree. "You sure about that? Even though you're mad at him right now?"

Stiles sighed in a put-upon sort of way. "He's an idiot. And I'm still mad. But...I still like him, too."

It was his father's turn to sigh. "Okay. I can try to...get to know him."

"Thanks, Dad," Stiles said, and the smile was clear in his voice.

"I try, kid."

"I know. And I appreciate it."

"Does Derek...I don't know, watch baseball or something?"

"I don't know," Stiles replied, thoughtful. "He doesn't have a TV."

"Well. The next time you see him tell him he's welcome to come watch the game with me sometime."

"Thanks, Dad. I will. But, he probably won't be around for a while...It was a bad fight."

"Yeah, I figured. Or you wouldn't have called. I'll talk to you later, son."

"Bye, Dad."

~~~

Three days had passed since the last body was found. Stiles knew he had less than a week left to figure out who the next victim was if he had any chance of stopping the yet identified baddie from killing them and taking their soul. Since he was looking for artists, he did the most logical thing he could think of when it came to finding artistic people.

He went to Starbucks.

Beacon Hills was large enough to have two Starbucks, but only one of them was in the center of town, which, Stiles figured, was where an up-and-coming _artiste_ would go.

He figured right.

Four hours, two and a half grande caramel frappuccinos, three bathroom breaks, and an inordinate amount of internet surfing later Stiles heard exactly what he was waiting for.

"What's the matter, Mr. Hammond? You seem down," the bubbly girl behind the counter asked. She was addressing a man in his early thirties, dark brown hair and glasses. He was carrying a laptop bag.

"I'm just tired. I haven't been sleeping very well," Hammond replied. "I just don’t have any energy left, you know?"

"Oh, that's too bad," the barista said.

"Yeah, it is. I'm already tired and I can't sleep because of these awful nightmares I keep having. They're enough to drive a man insane."

Bingo.

Stiles very casually powered off his computer, sucked down the last of his drink, and walked past Hammond to exit the coffee shop. He was careful to get a good look at him without being noticed.

He hopped in his Jeep, turned the key, and gassed it all the way to the Sheriff's station.

The deputy at the front desk let him into the back without batting an eye and Stiles didn't even knock before he burst into his father's office and exclaimed, "Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad—I found him!"

The Sheriff turned his attention to his son with a look that spoke volumes about his familiarity with his offspring’s unusual behavior. In spite of this he still had no idea what Stiles was talking about.

"Found who, son?" the Sheriff asked patiently.

"The next victim!"

An eyebrow quirked up. "Really? How'd you manage that?"

"Went where all artists go: Starbucks, duh. And there was this guy who told the barista that'd he hadn't been sleeping well because of nightmares! That's totally our guy!"

"So, who is he?"

"She called him Mr. Hammond. Can you pull up all the Hammond's driver's licenses and let me identify him?"

The Sheriff sighed. His teenage son really had no concept of privacy laws. Or any laws.

"Fine. Stay over there. You're not supposed to have access to any of this." John said with a point. He typed in the name and two out of five results were men. "We have a Roger Hammond and a Mark Hammond."

"How old are they?" Stiles asked.

"Thirty-four and forty-one."

"Try the younger one."

The Sheriff clicked open the file and Stiles was over his shoulder in a heartbeat, his dad sighing in defeat.

"That's him! That's the guy!" Stiles said, tapping the screen. He squinted at the print. "Roger Hammond, forty-nine twenty—“

"Ah, ah!" his father interrupted and covered the screen with a hand while the other one did its best to push Stiles’s face away. "You do not need to know that man's address and you certainly do not need to go to his house."

"But—“ Stiles cut off suddenly without his father having to tell him no again.

Uh oh. That was never a good sign.

"You're right, Dad. I don't need to go to his house," Stiles said already at the door. "Thanks for your help, Dad. See you later."

"Stiles, wait—“ The Sheriff began, knocking his chair back as he stood hurriedly and futilely reached out a hand.

"Love you!" Stiles called from the hallway.

The Sheriff sighed again, hand dropping back down like a lead weight. "Love you, too, son." He shook his head and sat back down. "Please don't do anything dangerous." There's a heavy pause. "Or stupid.”

~~~

"How can I help you today, Mr. Stilinski?" Deaton asked with a small smile as Stiles came through the swinging partition at the front.

"I need to go inside someone else's dream. Can you help me out?"

Deaton's lips pursed. "And why would you need to do that?"

"To figure out what we're dealing with. If I can get inside the next victim's dream, I can see what we're up against. At least I think so, anyway."

"You know who the next victim is?" Deaton inquired.

"Yeah."

"Good. Because you'll need some of their DNA to get inside their dream."

Stiles's face twisted in disgust. "Oh, ew. What?"

"Come with me," Deaton said and led Stiles to the back of the vet's office. Deaton pulled open a cabinet up high and stretched up to the top shelf. He brought down a small glass jar of what looked to be leaves. "This is African dream root," he said by way of explanation. If you insert a person's DNA into the tea you make with it, you can enter that person's dreams. Now, it's not as easy as it sounds. And the dreamscape can be a very dangerous place. It's hard to control what's happening there."

"So, I have to drink his hair or something?" Stiles asked. "Blech."

"Any DNA will do."

Stiles perked up, obviously realizing something. "You know what, I can do that. Not a problem." He reached for the vial, but Deaton pulled his arm back.

"Stiles."

"What?" Stiles asked, innocently.

"You're entering another person's dream without their permission."

"I'm doing it to save their life!"

"I realize that, which is why I'm letting you. But, remember: dreams are very finicky things. It will be hard to keep your feet under you in there. And there's a risk you could make things worse by being there."

"Fine, fine. I'll be very careful," Stiles said. "I'm a witch, right? I think I'll be okay."

Deaton sighed through his nose. "You will probably be more than okay."

Stiles grew confused. "What?"

"Nothing," Deaton hummed and handed over the bottle. "Stiles, you should leave this as a last resort. Try to find out what the creature is without having to go into someone else's psyche. But, if you do, just be careful. And try not to damage the person's mind you'll be tromping through."

"Sure thing, Doc. Just taking a look around."

Stiles pocketed the bottle and left.

~~~

Derek called that night. Stiles waited a long minute before answering the phone.

"What do you want?" he asked.

Derek returned his abruptness in kind. "What are planning on doing with that tea?"

"How do you know about that?"

"I talked to Deaton. He said you shouldn't do it."

"Do you have a better plan?" Stiles challenged.

Derek ignored him. "What are you going to do if you do find the monster and it decides to kill you right then and there?"

"Nothing's going to happen, Derek. It's just a dream."

"Stiles. Don't drink that tea."

"Okay, one: you don't get to tell me what to do, Mr. Avoidance. And two: I can't anyway. I'd have to get the guy's DNA. And how am I supposed to do that, huh?"

"I imagine you already have that figured out," Derek replied lowly.

"Maybe I do. But, it's really none of your business anymore, Derek. Good night."

Stiles hung up the phone and threw it violently, but harmlessly into his pillow.

"Stupid," he mumbled before turning out the light and retreating into bed.

~~~

Arriving closer to the time Hammond had gotten to the Starbucks the previous day, the writer was already there when Stiles took a seat at the table next to him. He sat facing Hammond's back, keeping an eye on the man over his laptop. Hammond sat in the coffee shop for five hours, tapping away at his computer the entire time. He racked up four cups in that amount of time and they all sat empty near the corner of the table.

Stiles saw his opportunity.

Closing his laptop and packing it up, Stiles rose from his table. He slung his bag over one shoulder and walked toward the trashcan on the other side of Hammond's table. Being clumsy came in handy for once and he tilted his head back, pretending to shake the last bit of his frappucino into his mouth as he walked. The rubber soles of his sneakers stuck on the tile floor and Stiles tripped. His hip bumped into Hammond's table and three out of the four coffee cups went tumbling down as Hammond neglected them to brace his hands on his laptop instead.

"Oh, geez, sorry!" Stiles exclaimed. "Let me get those. Wow, I'm a klutz." Stiles gathered up the empty cups in his arms and glanced at Hammond. "At least they were empty, huh? Sorry about that, buddy."

"Nothing to worry about," Hammond said, checking the other contents of his table.

"Sorry, again, anyway. Have a nice day!" Stiles said, passing the trashcan. One cup was inconspicuously slipped into the side pocket of his backpack as he tossed the rest. He exited the shop before anyone could notice. Hand carefully avoiding the mouthpiece, Stiles walked to his Jeep and muttered, "And a nice night.”

~~~

"All right..." Stiles said to the room at large. Which meant no one since the room was empty. "I think that's right."

He grimaced. "I hope that's right. I don't wanna think about what this is going to do to me if it's wrong," he admitted, holding the foggy, yellow liquid up to eye level and giving it a shake.

"Well. Bottoms up." With a shrug he tipped the cup back and forced down the strange tea, pushing past the bitter taste. He shuddered once it was all down, swallowing thickly against it one last time.

The teen set the cup on the edge of his desk and then sat back on his bed, waiting. He tilted his head to the side, considering. He didn't feel any different.

"Hm. I guess it didn't work," Stiles said after a few minutes had passed. He tried not to be too disappointed. "Oh, well."

However, his dejected state quickly dissipated when he caught sight of a shape lying on his bed in his periphery. Glancing around he found that the shape was him.

"Holy—" Stiles leapt from his perch on his bed and jerked around to get a better look at himself. Or rather, what he supposed was his body. It looked like his body had gone down for a nap that could rival Sleeping Beauty's without him noticing.

"Oh my god..." he muttered, eyes blinking wide, mouth hung open in disbelief. "I'm having an out of body experience..." One slow blink and then his face lit up in excitement. "Cool!

"All right, so. I should just be able to...walk right out the door, then, right?" Stiles stared at said door, wringing his hands and worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. His bedroom door had never seemed like much of an obstacle before, but now he wasn't so sure it wasn't some un-climbable mountain. "One way to find out, I guess," he said with determination and reached for the handle.

The brassy knob turned with its usual squeak and Stiles eased the door open.

"Sweet."

Leaving his body behind Stiles ventured down the staircase and out the front door of his home.

"Whoa," Stiles breathed out as he was faced not with his front porch and the yard beyond it, but a hallway in an unfamiliar house. He turned around and found that the door he had come through was gone.

"Great. Forward it is."

Cautiously he proceeded down the dimly lit corridor. His eyes flitted around nervously, taking in the details of the house. It seemed like an older house, wallpaper and wood paneling splitting the wall in half, carpet on the floor, antique-looking light fixtures. Taking a closer look Stiles started noticing stranger things about the house: paintings that didn’t form any images hanging on the walls, lights that didn’t cast shadows, a grandfather clock that didn’t have a face. Hopefully, this was where he needed to be.

When the blood-curdling scream shot straight down his spine, he knew it was exactly that.

Stiles dashed down the hallway, clipping his shoulder on a corner as he rounded it, nearing the steady stream of panicked cries. He stopped, feet nailed to the floor, when he came across the source of the screaming.

A man that Stiles recognized to be Roger Hammond was standing in the middle of the room, covered head to toe in spiders.

Looks like he had guessed right.

Their supposed next victim was desperately trying to rip the spiders off of his body, but like a Hydra's head, removing one only resulted in two more taking its place. The monstrous spiders were coming out of every corner of the room all converging on Hammond as water rushes to a crack in a dam. The arachnids varied in size and color and Stiles recognized a few of the breeds as they enveloped the writer.

A wisp of movement hooked Stiles's attention and his head jerked toward it of its own accord. That's when he saw her.

A woman, who to compare her complexion to snow would not even come close to capturing the degree of her paleness. She almost appeared to be made of porcelain her features were so fine, although her skin looked papery, old. Her eyes held obsidian-black pupils that were too large; any iris she had was overrun by the inky edge of the central orbs. Garbed in a white dress that showed only her hands and face, her ashen hair fell like clumped cobwebs around her bony shoulders. Sharp teeth smiled wickedly and when her hands were glimpsed from inside her long sleeves they looked more bone than flesh. She stood to the side of the room, gleeful, as she watched Hammond's slow descent into madness.

She noticed Stiles, then.

An inquisitive look that managed to look furious at the same time came across her features. Stiles’s jaw quivered as his mind desperately tried to figure out what to do in this situation.

She sized him up and then grinned horribly, when she realized Stiles was too scared to move.

Hammond spotted Stiles in the doorway and reached out to him, screaming wildly and choking as numerous spiders started pouring down his throat.

"Help me! Please!"

Too scared to move, my ass. Stiles was going to do exactly what he would do in any situation like this, scary bitch in the corner or not.

He was going to help. Because above all else, that was what Stiles Stilinski did.

Stiles rushed forward and grabbed the shovel from the fireplace tools and began smashing spiders like he was playing whackamole. A look of horror came to the woman's face as Stiles brought the shovel down onto the ground over and over again, successfully squashing dozens of spiders.

She let out an enraged shriek and swung her hands out. Stiles was blown back out of the room. He landed on his ass in the hallway and looked up just in time to see a sheet of glass fill the doorway.

The woman smirked, far too pleased with herself for having just thrown a 140 pound boy out of the room. Stiles knew at least a dozen people who could do that—easily.

The shovel was on the other side of the glass, but never one to be deterred by something like the laws of physics, Stiles reached out to it and concentrated.

He was in a dream and he was a witch. He could get that damn shovel on his side of the glass.

Hammond's screams were muffled through the glass, but no less terrifying for it. Stiles used them to channel his belief into summoning the shovel to him.

_I will get that shovel. I will get that shovel. I will—_

He got the shovel.

"Ha ha!" he crowed and jumped to his feet and swung.

The glass shattered and it seemed to distract the spiders for half a second from attacking Hammond. Stiles was quick to realize the spiders were only distracted because their master was. That was good to know.

The white woman stared at Stiles like she had never seen anything like him before, and then in a voice as bone-chilling as her appearance said, " _Oh_."

Stiles took a moment to process what that "oh" could possibly mean; it led to only one conclusion. She knew what he was. And judging by the deeply satisfied smile on her face that was a very bad thing.

Hammond's screaming resumed and Stiles's attention slung back over to him. When he glanced back the spectral woman was gone, so Stiles turned one hundred percent of his attention to smashing the crap out of spiders.

Without their master pulling their strings, the creepy-crawlies started veering away from Stiles and his shovel of death. The teen got close to Hammond and the spiders started running away from him then. Apparently their mission was not worth encountering the business end of the shovel. Once the ones on the floor were fleeing, Stiles snatched up the short fireplace brush and began swatting them off of Hammond, still smashing at the floor occasionally so none of the braver ones came back.

Hammond for his part broke down into incoherent sobs.

When the last of the spiders had vanished into the spaces under the furniture, Stiles dropped the tools turned weapons and heaved in a couple of breaths. Fighting off a horde was  _exhausting_.

Hammond had assumed the fetal position and Stiles awkwardly knelt next to him.

"Um, hey there, buddy...Mr. Hammond, um...it's okay now. They're all gone."

"Oh, god!" he choked out.

Stiles made a sympathetic face. "Scared of spiders, huh? They are pretty creepy...But, hey! Brightside! This is all just a dream. Isn't that nice? So, wake up now and we can all go home...I hope." Stiles didn't actually know how to get back.

"But, it felt so real," Hammond whimpered.

"I know it did, but I guarantee you it wasn't. I mean, how else would I be here?"

Hammond looked up at him confused suddenly. "What? What do you mean how are you here? Aren't you just a figment of my imagination? Someone I dreamed up to save me? Wait a minute…you're that boy from Starbucks."

"Uh." Stiles’s eyes bulged a little as he quickly tried to come up with an explanation that was reasonably plausible to a normal human. Failing that, Stiles said instead, "Yeah, you know what? Wake up," as he brought a hand up to pinch Mr. Hammond's arm as hard as he could.

Stiles jerked back into consciousness and yelped when the first sight that greeted him was Derek poised over him, fist raised.

"What the hell are you doing?" Stiles shouted and covered his face with his arms, reflexively trying to duck away.

Derek blinked owlishly once and then abruptly scowled.

"You drank the tea, didn't you?"

Stiles glanced guiltily over at the cup lined with tea dregs, unabashedly on display on his desk before saying, "Um. No?"

Derek's mouth ticked down into an even deeper scowl.

"Hey, I asked you a question first! Why were you about to hit me and probably break my face in, you freakishly strong wolf-man?"

Derek looked slightly miffed, but answered with, "You wouldn't wake up."

"Yeah, well. I was a little busy fighting spiders."

Derek raised a dark eyebrow. "Spiders?"

"Yep. Hundreds of them. I mean, army horde of spiders. They were trying to eat or suffocate or I don't really know what, Roger Hammond, the writer."

The werewolf was interested then. "It was him, then? You were right?"

"Oh, yeah. Dead on."

"So, you were in his dream?"

"Yup. And let me tell you that is disorienting as hell."

"How'd you wake up then?"

"By waking him up."

Derek looked at Stiles, knowing there was more to that statement than the teen was readily willing to share.

Stiles folded under Derek's stare. "I pinched him  _real_  hard."

Derek rolled his eyes. "Anything else?"

An annoyed quirk of his mouth and then Stiles replied mockingly, ""Anything else?" Please. I haven't even gotten to the best part yet."

"And that would be?" the wolf asked impatiently.

"I saw it. The monster that's doing this. It's a her, actually. Mean, little bitch, too."

Derek's eyes flared angrily. "Did she hurt you?"

Stiles briefly studied Derek. It was rare enough to see the werewolf in an open state of concern for his well-being, especially so now that he and Stiles were currently on the outs. He tucked the image away like the treasure it was.

"No. Threw me on my ass once, but I do that enough tripping over my own feet that it didn't really bother me. Which…does it even matter? It happened in the dream so…" Stiles paused to press his fingers into his tailbone. It seemed undamaged. "Huh. Doesn't look like it transfers to the physical realm. Interesting…"

Derek interrupted his train of thought. "What did she look like?"

"Pale," Stiles said pointedly. "Like unbelievably pale. Unearthly pale. Supernaturally pale—"

"Stiles."

"Sorry, um. Ah, let's see. Real big black eyes. White hair all messed up like a crazy homeless person. She was wearing a..." Stiles trailed off, remembering. Belatedly, he realized what the garment had been. "It was a kimono."

"A kimono?" Derek sounded unsure.

"Yeah. All white everything. Kimono, sash, obi."

"How do you know so much about what Japanese women wear?" Derek asked.

Stiles gave Derek an unimpressed look. "Really, Derek? You think I don't watch anime?"

Derek conceded his point with a nod. "What else?"

Stiles shrugged. "She seemed real interested in the fact that I was manipulating her dreamscape."

Frowning, Derek asked, "Interested how?"

Stiles worried his top lip with his teeth. "Like I was a shiny, new toy."

Derek took a calming breath. "That can't be good."

"No, I imagine, it cannot."

"So, do you have a better idea of what it might be?"

He shook his head. "No. But, now I have more to go on. Japanese, female, and lots and lots of white."

"Good. We need to figure out what it is and how to kill it."

"I hear that," Stiles said.

Derek was already heading for the window.

"Hey, wait."

The werewolf glanced back.

"Why were you here?"

Derek straightened up. "I figured you might do something stupid."

And Stiles's figured Derek would go with an insult for a response.

"Hey. Not a scratch on me."

Derek huffed. "This time."

Stiles stared at him, working himself down from the childish fight they were both heading towards. Again.

"Dad says you should come over to watch a baseball game with him sometime."

The look of surprise on Derek's face was one in a million and Stiles's kind of wished he had a camera or a photographic memory or something, so he could keep it forever.

"Oh," Derek said and searched for the lie, the fib in Stiles's words. When there was none, he said, "Maybe I'll do that sometime."

"Really?" Stiles perked up. He hadn't thought Derek would go for that.

"Yeah," the older man said and with one last long look at Stiles he pushed the window open and disappeared into the night.

The breeze that hit Stiles's face was cool and he relaxed back onto his bed, leaving his window open as he drifted off into his own dreams this time.  He dreamed of much more pleasant things, like red eyes and stubble.

~~~

Stiles hadn’t known what to expect when he fell asleep the next night.

He had destroyed her army of spiders and rescued her chosen victim if only for a while; the teen imagined she would keep an eye on him.

What he did not account for was that she would turn her full attention on him.

The whispering is what he noticed first. When he laid his head down on his pillow and closed his eyes and started drifting, the whispers started. Raspy, little murmurs that would follow him straight into his dream. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but instinctively he knew that they were deciding what he dreamed about.

Sure enough, once he was deep in dreamland, the whispers turned into images. It was bats this time. Oh, yeah. Add wings. That always made it worse.

Stiles didn't panic though. He knew this was just a dream and knew it was just her doing this.

Standing in the middle of the Beacon Hills woods surrounded by a veritable tornado of the screeching creatures, Stiles said, "Bats, huh? I have an idea for that."

Stiles stooped down and scooped up a large branch from the ground. It only took a moment's concentration to transform the wood into a baseball bat.

"Let's play ball."

In wide swings Stiles took out the flying rodents left and right. Their screeches became distressed and Stiles only swung harder. Every time one would swoop in to attack him, he would bring the bat down on it viciously. About five minutes and forty bats in, the swirling wall was starting to thin and Stiles caught a glimpse of the Japanese woman on the other side of it, watching him intently. Her mouth moved and she smiled.

All at once the bats converged on him. Stiles did panic, then. He couldn't possibly keep them all off of him. But, he could wake up. Gripping the bat tightly in both hands, he centered it in front of him.

She must have sensed what he was doing because everything went dark all of a sudden and the bats were gone and she was gone. An icy feeling crept up Stiles’s neck and he realized it was fingers. A breath like cemetery dirt ghosted over his ear just before a voice whispered to him and the fingers dug into his flesh—

He jerked the bat back toward himself. It connected with his forehead with a loud clonk.

“Guh!”

Stiles shot upright and for a dizzying moment couldn’t get his bearings. He didn’t know where he was, what was happening, what was real. But, then there were hands on his shoulders, big, warm ones, gentle and reassuring. A voice reached his ears and his vision burst back into focus with an abruptness that almost made him sick.

“Stiles. What happened? Stiles, say something.”

“Something," Stiles shot out grimly.

Derek breathed a sigh that was about two parts relief, one part annoyance. “What happened?” he demanded.

“I...I saw her again,” Stiles said, the feeling of icy cold fingers grazing his neck making him shiver and he leaned into Derek’s warmth without making the conscious decision to do so.

Derek’s eyebrows rose. “ _The_ her?”

“The one from last night, yeah. She...she said something to me. She…she told me her _name_. What was it?” Stiles reached down into his memory, breaking the seal on his subconscious for just a moment. “The Pale Lady,” he announced.

Before Derek knew what was happening Stiles was flying out of bed to land in his desk chair.

“I’ve heard that,” the teenager said. “I know I have, but where? It...I don’t think she’s a common monster. Rare, ya know. Like Peter said.” He scoffed. “It would be our luck to attract some sort of obscure dream-sucker.”

“Stiles,” Derek said softly and Stiles finally looked him in the face for the first time since waking up.

He read relief in the other man’s face, but also a hint of something like worry.

“What?” Stiles asked.

Derek sighed through his nose, an action that Stiles had come to recognize as meaning that whatever Derek was about to say wasn’t what he actually wanted to say. “It’s just past three. Why don’t you look it up in the morning?”

Stiles wasn’t going to let Derek weasel out of this with _that_ lame excuse.

“Technically, it is morning.”

“Stiles.”

“What?” Stiles asked, perfectly innocent. Then, a thought struck him. “Wait. It’s three in the morning? What were you—where were you—have you been outside my window all night?”

Derek didn’t answer him. Which meant yes.

“Really, Derek? Is you creeping outside my window a thing now? I don’t know if that’s creepy or kind of chivalrous, you watching over me and all. And what happened to avoiding me, huh?”

“I had good reason to,” was Derek’s terse response. “We _are_ dealing with a creature that haunts _dreams_. And apparently does a damn good job of it.”

The words, “What’s that supposed to mean?” were out of Stiles’s mouth even as Derek’s expression changed to one of knowing he had just said too much.

Stiles studied Derek for a moment; he _was_ worried.

“Derek,” he began slowly, “what happened on your end? Why did you decide to come through my window?”

Derek hesitated. Stiles thought he was going to deflect again, but the man surprised him by saying, “Your heartbeat.”

“Care to expand on that for those of us who don’t live with supernatural hearing every day?”

Derek’s eyes flicked up in the short version of an eye roll, but he plowed on. “It was too fast. Way too fast. I thought...”

“You thought I was going to die,” Stiles said plaintively.

A nod.

“I...” Stiles started, then tried again. “In the dream I was panicked. Right there at the end. I guess my body was reacting to it in the real world. I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For making you think even for a second that you were going to lose someone else. I’m not going anywhere, Derek. You’re stuck with me, even if you're doing a fantastic job of pretending you're not.”

Derek didn’t respond to that, but he looked decidedly grimmer.

“Hey,” Stiles added, “you’re the one who wants to stay away and you’re the one who keeps coming here.”

Derek bares his teeth. “I’m trying to keep you from getting _killed_.”

“Well, isn’t that nice of you?”

“ _Stiles_.”

“ _What?_ ” Stiles snapped and Derek actually pulled back. “What, Derek? You’re the one playing this game! You’re the one who wants to distance yourself, but keeps sitting outside my window all night! I want you around, Derek, but I can’t take this anymore. Either be around or don’t. You don’t have to fucking touch me, but you can’t constantly be on the other side of the glass anymore either. Make a fucking decision. Stay or don’t.”

Stiles didn’t break the stare he had pinned on Derek. Out of sheer stubbornness Derek wouldn’t look away either. After a long moment, Derek plopped down in the chair he had sat in the very first time he had come through Stiles’s window.

“Go back to sleep, Stiles.”

Stiles let a small smile curl his lips. He slipped back into bed.

“Night, Derek.”

~~~

Derek wasn’t around when Stiles woke up. But, he figured it was because his dad was bumping around in the kitchen downstairs. Stiles couldn’t bring himself to mind. He thought they were okay now. They had made up after all, hadn’t they? Maybe they hadn’t exactly moved forward with their relationship, but they certainly hadn’t taken a step back either. He wasn’t sure where they stood now, but regardless he wasn’t going to hold on to his anger anymore.

What could he say? He really did want Derek around. Even if he was an idiot and a jerk.

“Morning, Dad.”

“Morning, son. Want some eggs?”

“Those better be egg whites in that pan,” Stiles said, side-eyeing his father as he got out the orange juice.

“They are,” the Sheriff sighed, mournfully.

“Then, yes, I want some. Thanks.”

“How’s researching the dream monster going?”

“Oh. The Pale Lady,” Stile said. “She told me her name.”

The Sheriff looked at him, incredulous. “She... _told you her name?_ ”

“Yeah. In a dream last night. Well, nightmare. There were killer bats. Anyway. Whatever.”

The Sheriff stared at his son, brow wrinkled with worry.

“Stiles. Are you...fighting this thing in your dreams now?”

“Um. Maybe. I mean it’s only been one night since I intercepted her in another victim’s dream.”

“I don’t even want to know what that means,” his dad said, waving the spatula around. “Are you her target now?”

“Maybe? But, I’m not a target. I’m an opponent.”

The Sheriff released the handle of the frying pan and turned fully toward Stiles. “Stiles, what makes you think you’re qualified to do this? To fight this creature that kills people? Often.”

“Dad, it’s not like she can hurt me in the dream. It’s fine. Besides, if she’s busy with me, she won’t be killing anyone else. No one else has to die.”

“That includes you, Stiles.”

“I’m not going to die, Dad. I can do this.”

“Stiles, I have every right to worry about you going off into Dreamland and fighting some freaky, soul-sucking woman.”

“That’s just it, Dad. It’s just “Dreamland.” Nothing that happens in the dream carries over into real life. I know, I’d have a bruised tailbone and a goose-egg on my head.”

The admittance that Stiles was getting knocked around in the dreamscape did not comfort his father.

“Stiles. I don’t like you doing this.”

“You don’t really have a choice, Dad. No one else can,” Stiles said before storming off back to his room.

He thumped down on his bed and ran his hands through his hair, head falling heavily into his palms.

“Why does everybody act like I can’t do _anything_ except research? “ _Sit on the sidelines, Stiles. Wouldn’t want you to trip on your own feet and hurt yourself,””_ he mocked. “I’m not helpless, dammit. And it’s just a dream. I’m not even in any danger.” Stiles sat up and massaged his fingers into the base of his skull, rubbing along his neck.

“Why can’t they just let me do this? It’s not like I can get hur—“ Stiles’s declaration cut off like a guillotine had fallen. His fingers ran back over the abrasions, long slender marks left on his skin like a burn. He clattered across the room to a mirror and twisted to see. Five stark finger impressions stood out on his pale skin, dark red and deep purple furrows across his vertebrae.

Stiles stared in horror.

She could hurt him.

All she had to do was touch him.

~~~

That night Stiles was apprehensive going to sleep. The Pale Lady would surely be waiting for him and with his newfound knowledge that she could physically harm him if she put her hands on him the teen wasn’t so sure of how capable he was against her anymore.

It was rats this time. Dozens of them, beady-eyed and fast.  Stiles found himself standing in the middle of the science lab at school, suddenly hemmed in by them. They covered the desks and crawled along the floor, circling him.

“Oh, god.”

Stiles took a deep breath. He didn’t see the ringmaster anywhere. He could handle the rats. He just had to figure out how.

Glancing around the room, he spotted the cabinet of chemicals that Lydia had once pulled bottles from to make a Molotov cocktail. Perfect. He didn’t even have to mix anything, he was sure some hydrochloric acid would do the trick. He only had to get through the sea of rats to get to it.

Stiles carefully, leaned over and lifted a chair by its back. He flipped it over to grip the legs of it. Holding it in front of himself he paused to gather his courage before he took a step forward.

As soon as his foot left the ground, the rats attacked. They swarmed toward him, vicious and screeching. Stiles kicked out and a rat went flying before it could get too close. The teen swung the chair down and its hard back sent rodents scattering.

“Jesus!” Stiles said when a rat began racing up his leg. He backhanded the thing away and plowed on.

Stiles progressed through the mass of teeth and fur, barely managing to keep them all off of him. Upon reaching the cabinet he smashed the glass in and hastily yanked out the bottle he needed. He tossed the chair into the wave coming toward him, effectively delaying the vermin for a brief moment. The moment was all he needed and he yanked off the lid and turned the bottle up. Back against the cabinet, he traced a semi-circle between himself and the mob. The first rat charged him and convulsed and jerked away when it hit the line of liquid. It squealed in pain and the rest of its brethren paused to consider the new threat.

The witch smirked and found another bottle of the potent chemical.

Popping the top and holding it up, Stiles addressed the rats, “Eat this, Ratatouille!” His arm swung out wide, slinging the contents of the bottle across the room. A cacophony of squeals rose from the floor and the rodents made a quick exit into the dark corners of the room.

Stiles was alone then. Except that he wasn’t. His head whipped toward the door and there she stood in all her ghastly glory. The Pale Lady observed him keenly for a moment.

“Try it, bitch,” Stiles said, holding up the bottle that still held just enough liquid to burn someone’s face off.

She didn’t respond immediately, just glanced at the glass in Stiles’s hand. Finally, she smirked darkly. A frigid chuckle echoed around Stiles as the room shortly went black.

Stiles sat up in his bed, sweating. She didn’t touch him this time. Didn’t even try to. He didn’t know what to make of that. It should be a good thing, but it felt like it wasn’t.

He leaned over to click on a light and nearly fell out of the bed when Derek’s form became illuminated. The werewolf watched him freak out from his comfortable position in Stiles’s chair.

“Oh. My. God. Derek. Really? You are going to give me a heart attack.”

“How’d it go tonight?” Derek asked.

Stiles grew peeved. “You know that whole thing where you completely ignore what I say? Not cute.”

“I wasn’t aiming for cute. Are you hurt?”

“No, I didn’t get hurt tonight,” Stiles answered, relaxing back into his pillows. “Fought off some more creepy critters again, but nothing happened. She laughed for some reason.”

“Hm.” Derek stood from his chair, hands slipping snuggly into his jacket pockets.

“What time is it?”

“Almost four.”

“What time did I start having a nightmare?”

“About one.”

Stiles nodded, analyzing the information. “It takes her a while, I think. To make the dream—the nightmare—and plant it in your subconscious. And time’s a lot quicker in Dreamland. It was only fifteen minutes maybe in the dream. It takes a lot of real world time for her visions to play out. She’s limited that way."

“Maybe we can use that.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“It’s just one dream a night, right?” Derek asked.

“As far as I can tell, yeah. It’ll be morning soon. She doesn’t have time to make another one.”

“Good. Get some sleep.”

Stiles smiled softly up at Derek. “Thanks for keeping an eye on me.”

“Good night, Stiles,” Derek said pointedly and exited through the window into the night.

“Night, Der,” Stiles whispered and settled back in to let slumber take him away.

~~~

The next nightmare was terrifying.

The Pale Lady had moved on from small threats and on to heavy hitters.

Stiles jerked into the dream in a blind moment of panic. His seatbelt was tight across his chest and his hands were sweaty and slipping off the steering wheel. He couldn’t pinpoint was wrong at first, but it quickly became clear: his Jeep was out of control.

Stiles struggled with the car like a sailor fighting a hurricane. It was useless; he couldn’t gain control of the car. He didn’t know how to fix this. This wasn’t like the bats and rats. This was something beyond a physical attack. It was deeply rooted in his psyche, the real fear of crashing and dying horribly one day. It was the taste of copper in his mouth. It was the air trapped in his lungs. It was the oncoming truck that he couldn’t avoid.

The scream split the night like a bolt of lightning across the sky.

Stiles thrashed in his sheets, knocked over a lamp, made a sound terrible to hear.

“Stiles!”

Derek’s hands found Stiles’s shoulders just as the Sheriff burst into the room.

The man’s eyes landed on the werewolf. The barrel of his gun followed. But, when he noticed the look of complete helplessness on Derek’s face, he lowered his weapon and instead demanded, “What’s happening?”

“I’m not sure,” Derek answered, gripping Stiles by the biceps now, trying to limit the extent of his panicked flailing. “He was dreaming. Having a nightmare. But, she’s done something this time. He wasn’t like this before. He won’t stop. I can’t get through to him.”

"Is this because of that dream-lady?"

"Yes."

They both winced at a particularly shrill scream from Stiles.

“Let me try,” John said. He took Derek’s place, hands soothing as they rubbed Stiles’s arms instead of clamped down on them.

“Stiles,” he said calmly. “You’re awake. It was just a dream. It’s over and you’re awake. I’m here. It’s okay now. _Wake up_.”

Stiles only continued to wail.

The Sheriff said, "This isn't working."

Derek stayed unhelpfully silent. Making a frustrated noise, the Sheriff turned and scanned the room. A glint lit up his eye and he lunged for Stiles's desk and grabbed the water bottle that was resting on it. Turning back to his screaming son he yanked the lid off and threw the contents square into Stiles's face.

Stiles’s body spasmed and his eyelids fluttered rapidly before flying open to reveal clear whiskey eyes.

“Hey, kid.” The Sheriff smiled. “You with us?”

Stiles’s chest heaved as his body shifted back into a more natural shape, slouched and young.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Yeah, I’m here.” He looked up into his father’s face. “What happened?”

“We were hoping you could tell us.”

Stiles seemed to notice John kept saying “us.” He finally glanced over and saw Derek, looming in the corner as usual. He looked concerned that Derek and his father were both in his room in the middle of the night, but plowed on.

“The dreams...” Stiles began, “are different now.”

“Different how?” John asked.

“Different-worse,” Stiles said. “They...aren’t just rabid vermin anymore.”

“What was it?”

"Car crash."

His father's face crumpled in sympathy. "That's pretty rough, kid."

"Yeah. Looks like she's stepping up her game." He paused, clearly considering something. "Maybe that's how it works."

"What do you mean?" the Sheriff queried.

"I mean…I haven't started going crazy yet, so now she's changing tactics. Getting more serious to try again."

"And what happens if you still stay sane?"

"I imagine the nightmares get even worse."

The Sheriff's mouth thinned. "I don't like this, Stiles. I don't like you doing this."

The look in Stiles's eyes when he met his father's gaze made Derek suddenly feel like he shouldn't be there, shouldn't be intruding on this. Not that he should be there in the first place.

"I know, Dad," Stiles said gently, "but I told you, there really isn't anyone else who can do this."

"Can't Deaton call someone?" the Sheriff tried.

"Dad. I'm not going to risk another person's life, because I’m scared. I can handle this."

John's emotions collided into one another, then, crashing together all at once, fighting for which one would get to be worn on his face. Pride won out, shining out of his soft smile and his steady eyes.

"I suppose I can't blame you for trying to keep people out of danger. That'd be a little hypocritical.”

"That it would," Stiles agreed with a small, sincere smile. "Dad, I know you're worried. But, I'll be fine. I'm kind of, sort of a witch, remember?"

"God, how could I forget?" the Sheriff said. The man hesitated for a moment, then admitted quietly, "You know your mother…"

Stiles stiffened.

"She…she was always a little mysterious, you know? And she could always keep the plants in her garden alive no matter what. I always used to think it was some sort of miracle, but…now, I'm wondering if it was something else."

The news put Stiles in a heightened state of emotion. Derek could feel it on his tongue, like glass grit, sharp and thick.

"She was…" Stiles trailed off, too upset to finish that thought.

"I don't know."

Stiles broke, then. Derek could feel his distress blow away like dust on an empty desert plain. And then, there was nothing.

"I think I'd like to go back to sleep now," Stiles said and it sounded like the inside of a drum to Derek.

"That's a lie," he countered, finally speaking up, and Stiles shot him a dirty look. The Sheriff glanced at him speculatively over his shoulder. He very clearly hadn't forgotten Derek was there, but he did seem surprised Derek had spoken up.

Stiles smelled like hot steam on the inside of a saucepan, metallic and bitter, when he said, "Fine. I think I'd like to go to my mother's grave, but I need you two to leave so I can do that."

"I don't think you should be alone right now," Derek said.

"I have to agree," John said.

Stiles looked like he was going to argue, but then he glanced at Derek and said, "Fine. Derek can come _babysit_ me. Let's go." He slipped out of bed and snagged some jeans and shoes.

The Sheriff didn't try to stop him, which was not really what Derek had been expecting. But, then again, Derek thought the Sheriff knew his son pretty well. The man probably knew when to push and when to let it go. He gave Derek a nod as he headed for the door and Derek realized in that moment that the Sheriff trusted him.

That was a rather startling realization. The Sheriff was trusting Derek with his son while he was in such a fragile state and that...that meant a lot coming from a man like Sherif Stilinski.

Derek would do his best not to let either of the Stilinskis down.

~~~

The graveyard was quiet. In the still night not even the birds sang and Stiles’s form walking ahead of him resembled a specter, the kind that belonged in a place like this.

Derek didn't like it. But, he stayed no more than three steps behind Stiles and kept his ears attuned to the boy's heartbeat. It was steady. But, they hadn't reached their destination yet.

Derek remembered Stiles's mother's grave from when they had visited it together on the anniversary of her death. Derek had been a wolf then and Stiles had leaned on him for comfort. He wasn't sure what was going to happen now.

Stiles stopped at the grave marker, face eerily similar to the stone he was facing.

"Hi, mom," he said, the solemn words cutting through the silence. "That creeper behind me is Derek. You remember. The wolf? He's a person again now, because by some miracle we managed to break the curse. I know, he's very handsome. I agree, he needs to smile more. He's not really here, he's just babysitting me, because Dad thinks I'm about to have an emotional breakdown or something."

Derek watched Stiles's back as he carried on like he was saying his half of the lines in a play—like he knew exactly what the other half of the lines would be.

"We're fighting a dream monster now, did I tell you? Yeah, she's called the Pale Lady. What she's doing in Beacon Hills, you got me, but she's totally scary." Stiles paused realizing he had said that in front of Derek. He was quick to reassure them both. "I can handle it though. I'm magic after all, you know like…"

Stiles trailed off. His breath rasped in his chest and Derek was one breath away from going to him, when he whispered, "Mom, were you a witch?"

There was no answer. Not that there would be even if Mrs. Stilinski had been a witch. Someone has to have a channel open for the dead to get through and Derek was about ninety-eight percent sure Stiles didn't.

Stiles swallowed and Derek could smell salt on the air.

"Were you?" he asked again, voice not at all steady. "Could you have…could you have helped me with this? Am I witch because you were? Because I inherited my powers from you? Is that how that works? I don't even know…I don't know anything. I wish you were here. So you could teach me. So you could show me how to do this…I don't know what I’m doing, Mom." Stiles sniffled and rubbed a sleeve across his face, collecting some of the tears from his cheeks. "I need you."

It really didn't matter that Stiles was talking to his mom. Derek heard the words and coming out of Stiles's mouth he couldn't ignore them. Closing his arms around him Derek pulled Stiles close and held on tight. Stiles responded in kind, gripping Derek's jacket too tight and abandoning the fight against his tears. He was losing anyway.

After a while Derek sat them on the ground and cradled Stiles to him. Stiles was slowing, his sobs more like gasps now, his trembling subdued. It was a long moment before Stiles was completely calm again. His fingers twitched in Derek's jacket and he inhaled deeply before saying, "We should go."

Derek stood and righted Stiles with him, holding on for an extra moment to make sure he was properly on his feet. When the werewolf turned to leave, he was stopped by Stiles's clenching a hand in his sleeve.

"Stiles?"

Stiles sniffled. "Derek," he asked in a small voice, "will you smile for my mom?"

An overwhelming wave of sympathy flooded Derek's chest. A soft, warm smile bloomed on his face as he answered, "Of course."

Stiles started crying all over again and Derek simply scooped him up and walked him out of the cemetery and back to the car.

~~~

The Sheriff was awake in the living room, when Derek pulled up to the curb. Stiles was sleeping, not peacefully, but at least not fitfully, in the passenger seat, having exhausted himself. Derek wasn't going to jump through the window with Stiles as cargo anyway, but with the Sheriff waiting for them, the front door was definitely the only option.

It was open and Derek pushed through it gently, careful not to jostle Stiles.

The Sheriff looked over at them and didn’t exactly frown before standing and coming to stand in front of Derek.

“He needed it,” Derek said, whether to defend himself or Stiles, he wasn’t sure.

With a nod John said, “I know. Just set him on the couch. He won’t want to wake up in his room.”

Derek wanted to ask about that. About what it meant. But, he didn’t. Simply laid Stiles on the couch and watched the Sheriff cover him with blanket instead.

Derek was more than a little shocked, when the Sheriff looked at him and said, “Beer?”

Derek nodded belatedly and then, followed the man into the kitchen. John popped open a bottle for each of them and handed Derek one.  The Sheriff leaned against the counter while Derek stood apart, not sure what was happening, but ready to run just in case.

“So,” John began, “you like baseball?”

Derek blinked. “Yes. I do.”

“Good. Come watch the game with me sometime, then, okay?”

“Okay...” Derek remembered Stiles had mentioned that. Looked like the Sheriff was taking that promise to heart. “I’ll do that.”

The Sheriff stared at Derek for a long moment and then said, “I worry about him, you know.”

“I know.”

“He’s all I have. All I have left of his mother.”

Derek swallowed. He didn’t like talking about things like this.

“So, you can see that I have every right to worry. Don’t I?”

“Of course, sir.”

The Sheriff waved him off. “Don’t “sir” me, I’m not arresting you. Not right now at least.”

That didn’t bode well. “Okay.”

“Anyway, I want him to be safe, you understand?”

Oh, shit. This was it. This was the Sheriff telling him once and for all to stay away from his son.

“And after tonight, I think I’ve come to my conclusion about you.”

If Derek were the type to hold his breath, he would be right now.

“Take good care of him, Derek.”

What?

“What?”

“I can see that you care, Derek. I can also see what you’re willing to do for him, how far you’re willing to go to make sure he’s okay. I very well could have shot you when I found you in his room. And you know that. But, you came in anyway."

Derek did. He knew that very well. He was honestly surprised when the Sheriff hadn’t made a single threat toward him at the obvious fact that Derek had just come in through the window.

“Stiles is more important,” Derek said.

“He is. And I see that you see that, now. He’s more important than anything to you and to me...and I can commiserate with that. Don’t break his heart.”

“No, I won’t, I...I don’t think I’m good for him,” Derek said, shaking his head.

“Why’s that?”

“Because everything I touch gets destroyed.”

“Now, that’s not true.”

“It really is.”

“No, Derek. It isn’t,” the Sheriff said quietly. “A lot of bad things happen to you, son, but I don’t think any of them have really been your fault.”

Derek hesitated. But, now was the time for a confession like this. “Kate slept with me so she could get close enough to my family to kill them. It’s my fault. Erica and Boyd, the Alphas coming here...that’s my fault, too.”

“Derek. You can’t blame yourself for the actions of other people. If that were the case, I’d be blaming myself for “letting” Stiles lie to me all this time. For him getting taken from the Lacrosse field that night. I was there. I should have been able to stop it. Except that it was beyond my control and I couldn’t. And I understand that. Gerard was going to take Stiles no matter what I did and Stiles was going to keep it from me no matter what I did. I want you to understand that Kate being evil, that Peter biting Scott, that Erica and Boyd left, that the Alphas killed them...it was their choices, Derek. Not yours. And you need to stop blaming yourself for them. Do you think you could do that?”

“I don’t know,” Derek said, honest and small.

“Well, try.” The Sheriff took a swig of beer and then in a tone a lot more casual said, “Stiles is good for that sort of thing, you know.”

“What?”

“For making you accept that it wasn’t your fault.” A rueful twist shaped the Sheriff’s mouth. “I’d probably still be blaming myself about my wife’s death, if it hadn’t been for him.”

Derek let that sit for a moment.

“You think I should let myself be a part of Stiles’s life,” he said.

“I do. I can see how important he is to you. And I can see that you’re important to him, too. So, let yourself be important, Derek. Let him in.”

“I don’t know how to do this,” Derek admitted.

The Sheriff nodded, took another swig. “None of us do. But, being willing to try is what makes you find success one day. So, try, okay? For him. For you.”

“For us,” Derek said.

“Right,” the Sheriff responded with a point of his finger. “For both of you. Try.”

Derek nodded. “Okay...I can try.”

“Good,” the Sheriff said. “Do you want to be here when he wakes up?”

“Yes.”

“Good answer. I’ll grab you a sleeping bag.”

“Thank you.”

“Sure, son.”

~~~

When Stiles woke up the next morning, he was a little lost at first. He realized he was on the couch and not in his bed. He remembered that something had happened. But, it was almost like he hadn’t really been there. Like he had been a mere observer, was still just floating through what was happening. Then, the events of the previous night came crashing down on his head like cold water and he fell back into himself suddenly.

He at least felt more rested than he had in the past few days.

A warm feeling in his left hand drew his attention and he lifted it to find another hand wrapped around it. Confusing, to say the least. Following the arm it was attached to he found Derek lying on the floor calmly staring up at him.

Stiles blinked a few times. This was unexpected. Then, he connected the dots.

He whispered, "He said something to you, didn't he? My dad."

Derek nodded once.

Stiles smiled a little. "What, did he give you permission to hold my hand?"

Derek paused, then said, “Something like that.” The Sheriff had done much more than that. He had given Derek permission to let himself have this. To let himself have a chance at being happy.

Stiles huffed a laugh. "Yeah, whatever.” He frowned, eyes dropping down. "Are you in a sleeping bag?"

"I didn't know how to tell your dad I didn't need it."

Stiles laughed loudly, then. "That's priceless."

"It's not funny. He was being nice."

"I know. And that's not what's funny. The fact that you're in it is." 

Derek scowled, but his expression turned to something softer and he asked, "How do you feel?" 

Stiles sighed. "Better. I guess. Like I've actually slept."

"Do you need anything?" 

"No. Let's just...stay here for a while..." 

"Okay."

Stiles threaded their fingers together and tried not to let himself be too happy with this turn of events. The way their lives were, this could all come crashing down tomorrow. But, for now, in this moment Stiles would let himself have the warmth of Derek’s hand in his.

~~~

“I’m a little tired, but I’m fine. Not crazy," Stiles was saying later that day, when Derek inevitably brought it up again.

“That’s debatable,” Derek said.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “No one asked you. I'm fine, okay? I've been managing to fend her off. Last night was just a fluke. Stop worrying.”

Derek didn’t look convinced, but he let it go. Stiles did seem to be holding his own against the Pale Lady, last night's episode aside. He seemed upset, a little tired, but pretty normal all things considered.

Of course, they had barely just begun.

~~~

The next night held exactly what Stiles had been most afraid of from the start. People. Not just any people. People he knew. People he couldn't save.

It was Derek. Which only made sense he supposed. They had finally stepped off on the right foot with their relationship and sure enough, the Pale Lady had taken notice.

The nightmare began with Stiles standing in the middle of the Hale house, blackened and crumbling, as he knew it. But, he turned around and it was suddenly on fire again. Stiles almost immediately panicked before he realized that he wasn't in the flames, but a few feet back from them and in front of the door leading out. That didn't seem so bad, for all of two seconds. Then, he saw Derek. Derek was in the fire, trapped behind the roaring, burning wall of fire. He was just standing there, not even trying to get out. Stiles realized with horror that Derek wasn't fighting because he was resigned to his fate; he was letting it happen.

"No…" Stiles breathed out. Then, shouting, "No! Derek!"

Stiles called and called for him, reached for him, but Derek would not look at him, would not step out of the flames.

Stiles couldn't save him.

It was with a shudder that Stiles came back into wakefulness this time. He was already crying, the tears having come without any conscious will behind them.

Derek was there in an instant, circling arms around Stiles's middle and holding him tightly. He said nothing, only offered comfort.

Stiles jerked back suddenly to look at Derek's face and pleaded, "Don't go. Don’t go. Don't ever go! Promise me! You have to stay with me! Like you promised! You promised! Don't let it take you!"

"I promise," Derek said. He didn't know what Stiles had dreamt of and he was very sure he didn't want to, but he could offer this at least. He meant it, after all. "I promise. I'll stay. I'm here."

"You promised that once before. And then you avoided me," Stiles accused and it was true.

Derek had made that very promise the morning after he'd been turned back into a man. He'd done nothing, but break it since then.

"I know…I did avoid you. But, I never left. I was never far. I'm never far, okay?"

"Don't go…" Stiles whispered.

"I'm not. I'm not going anywhere," Derek replied, pulling him close again. The werewolf maneuvered until he and Stiles were both comfortably arranged on the bed. Then, he brought the comforter up around them and stroked Stiles's hair, hoping he would fall asleep again. He never did.

~~~

After last night's episode Stiles dug deep on the research. He spent an inordinate amount of time pestering Deaton about how better to manipulate a dream. Deaton's answer was that it depended on the dreamer's belief. Vaguely helpful, as always.

Betting on himself was a pitfall if ever there were one, but he did a little more research on meditation and found what he thought might be a solution.

While they still didn’t have a weakness for the Pale Lady, Stiles had been preparing for this night. He had a few tricks up his sleeve this time around. Whatever she threw at him, he’d be ready.

~~~

Stiles stood in a room filled only with darkness. It was cold in the way only something supernatural can be and Stiles fought down a shiver. There were no sounds around him. But, no that was wrong. There was one sound. A rushing noise.

Stiles opened his eyes.

He was in a rectangular, glass tank not much bigger than his body. And it was full of water.

Stiles screamed in terror and the water turned the sound to useless bubbles. He pounded on the glass and that was when another sound reached him. It was muffled by the water and the glass between them, but it was undoubtedly laughter, cruel and stinging.

Stiles made his eyes focus through the sea-green liquid and what he saw made him want the water to take him, so the people on the other side of the tank couldn’t.

Peter, Gerard, Matt, and Kali stood each on one side of the chamber, enjoying Stiles’s suffering.

Stiles was drowning and the only people there who could help him found it hilarious.

Oh, god, he was going to die.

_No_ , Stiles thought viciously.

_This isn’t real. It’s just a dream. I can get out of here. I’m not going to die here—I can’t. It’s just a dream. She’s not going to get me this time._

But, his pounding on the glass was useless. It was weak and the watery-tomb held him tight. His lungs were starting to burn.

He couldn’t get out of this glass by himself. But, who here would help him?

Stiles’s amber eyes landed on his first enemy.

Peter.

Peter had indeed tried to kill basically everyone Stiles cared about, had tried to turn Stiles into a wolf he could use for his own wicked purposes. But, Peter had healed. His once damaged, decayed mind had grown whole again and while he wasn’t the first person on the planet Stiles would trust, he certainly wasn’t the last. Now, Peter was just a thorn in Stiles’s side—not a knife.

Peter could help him. Peter _would_ help him.

“Peter!” he shouted through the liquid, through the ice filling his lungs when the water crept into his mouth. “Help me!”

There was a tense moment where everything seemed to slow down for an instant and all Stiles could hear was the rushing, solid sound of water in his ears.

Then, Peter moved, lightening quick and purposeful. He grabbed Kali and tossed her into the glass in a movement that resembled a wrecking ball hitting a building. Much like the building, the tank was condemned. Glass splintered and cracked as Peter slammed her into it once more.

A great shattering noise and then the water and Stiles both came bursting out.

The escaped liquid crashed to the floor and Stiles used it, put a little more oomph behind the water and Matt and Gerard both joined Kali in a glass littered puddle when the water overcame them.

Stiles looked up at Peter and the werewolf was awaiting his next command, eyes bright and eager, like a cub on its first hunt. Stiles cocked a grin.

He said, “This is my dream now.” And he knew she could hear him.

Kali was on her feet again, bleeding and furious, and Matt and Gerard were not far behind.

“Peter!” Stiles shouted and Derek’s dear uncle was lunging across the space between him and the Alpha werewolf, latching onto her throat without hesitation. Blood splurted satisfyingly from her neck and she was no longer a problem.

Stiles shifted to fully face the other two. They’d found some friends.

Next to Gerard, three armed and willing hunters, and next to Matt, the Kanima.

Good. Stiles could use that.

He pulled from deep within himself and summoned friends of his own. The Kanima surged forward first, but the witch wasn’t afraid. He knew it was just Jackson. And Jackson’s weakness had always been one person.

Lydia reached out for him and Jackson stalled, stumbled, stopped. Tears in her eyes, Lydia took him into her arms as the scales fell away.

No sooner had the hunters raised their guns had Scott and Isaac leapt and knocked them all down, sending their guns scattering. And then there was Derek.

Derek stalked forward and it was almost beautiful if not for how terrifying he looked as he held Gerard with his red, red eyes. With a great roar Derek opened his jaw and bit into Gerard.

The old man burst apart leaving behind a black puddle of thick tar. Peter was just dropping Matt’s limp body to the floor when Stiles turned and saw a mirror.

No. Not a mirror. A pool of water, flat and endless, floating perpendicular to the floor. Stiles stepped in front of it and gazed in.

Deep, impossibly deep, inside his father knelt in the dark sand, screaming silently, the bubbles erupting from his mouth carrying all sound away.

“Nice try,” Stiles said. He stuck his hands behind the disc and turned it up, flipping it over and all the contents came pouring out as if from a bucket. Water flowed past his ankles and Stiles helped his coughing father stand.

Stiles looked around the room that never ended, his friends and allies still standing at the ready, searching for the answer to the end of the dream.

He noticed it then, in the clothes they wore, in the lack of reflection in the shards of glass, in the brown-black emptiness of their surroundings. He noticed what was missing.

With a wry smile he laughed through his nose, just once. He raised his hands and clapped twice.

“Lights on.”

And just like that he knew how to beat the Pale Lady.

He came back into himself and for a moment feared he was in another dream when all he was faced with was darkness. But, he quickly relaxed when he saw that this darkness was tinted blue, drawing from any available light sources and grounding him in reality.

The warm hand on his cheek didn’t hurt either.

He turned his head to peer at Derek, really only making out the outline of his shape against the dim background. He knew it was Derek even without having to see his face.

“Hey,” he said anyway.

“Hey,” Derek said back, and Stiles remembered what his roar had sounded like in the dream, so unearthly. Stiles let himself sink into Derek’s real voice. "You all right?"

Stiles nodded. “Great actually. I know how to beat her now.”

"You do?"

“Yep. In the dream—there was no light. I mean, I could see, but there wasn’t actually any light. That’s how I ended it, the dream, I, well, I did the clapper and turned the lights on. It worked. So light. We beat her with light, where nightmares can’t live.”

“So, what, we shine a flashlight on her and she’s gone?”

“No, I don’t think it’s that simple,” Stiles said with a rueful smile.

“Well, think on it in the morning. You look exhausted.”

“Yeah, dream-fighting really takes it out of you. Especially when Peter, Gerard, Matt, and Kali are all there. You helped though.”

“I was there?”

“Yeah. But not by her doing. By mine."

“What do you mean?"

“I summoned real life good guys to fight her bad guys. You and Scott and Isaac and Lydia. Plus, Peter’s not really a bad guy anymore, just creepy and annoying, so he was on my side, too. You rocked, by the way. Dream-you, I mean.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Big, scary Alpha. Kicking butt, taking names.”

Derek chuckled.

“Get some sleep," Derek said, heading for the window.

“Okay,” Stiles said, as he watched Derek leave.

~~~

The next day Stiles was sitting at his desk staring blankly at his computer screen when Derek came back through the window. The teen seemed tired in spite of his victory last night.

“Stiles?”

“Oh. Derek...” he said and lazily turned to look at him.

“Are you okay?” Derek asked, intently listening for the lie in Stiles’s heartbeat.

“I’m researching,” Stiles said, turning back to his laptop and _completely_ not answering the question. “I’m trying to figure out how to bring light into a dream. I mean, I can make fire with what I have when I’m in there, but I can’t really summon actual light. All I’ve managed to do is make a light bulb turn on a time or two. That's not enough to kill her."

Derek nodded. “So, what are you thinking? A spell?”

“Yeah. Something I could do to myself out here that would be transferrable into a dream.”

“Stiles, you need to be careful playing with these spells,” Derek said and his voice sounded tense.

Stiles looked at him and realized with a sinking feeling that Derek wouldn’t want Stiles to become consumed by a fire spell gone wrong, probably more than anything.

“I am careful,” Stiles said, laying a hand on Derek’s arm, reminding him that he was there. “I’m going to have Deaton help me with whatever I choose.”

Derek nodded. "Show me what you had in mind."

~~~

Stiles came into the exam room and slapped a piece of paper down on the table. When Deaton looked up at him with a question in his eyes, Stiles met it with determination.

"This one," he said.

Deaton glanced down at the spell Stiles had presented and inhaled deeply through his nose.

"Stiles—"

"This one," Stiles insisted. "If we're going to fight something that's afraid of the light, then let's go all out."

"But, this spell? Stiles, a simple fire spell would be much easier—"

"No."

Deaton recognized the look in the teen's eyes as one of fierce protection; he wasn't going to use fire spells, because of Derek—and his less than fond memories of fire.

"Fine. But, channeling the sun? That's a very difficult thing to do."

"Can you do it?"

"No," Deaton answered meaningfully.

Stiles only grew more determined. "Then, it looks like the student is going to surpass the master. Now, do you want to help me or not?"

"Fine, fine. Let's draw a circle."

The circle that Deaton spoke of was in fact a meditation circle—a _mystical_ meditation circle. It was designed by practitioners of magic centuries ago to completely shut out the outside world in order to better master whatever skill it was you were learning. Complete focus. Deaton filled the room with a burning herb mixture, not unlike incense, but mainly composed of lavender, the most relaxing herb of them all. Candles provided minimal light in the room, the darkness soft and soothing and so unlike what Stiles's had been dealing with recently. What these three things made were ideal conditions for a trance, specifically a trance that could open a door into the hidden realm of the natural power of the universe and allow a magic user to communicate with it directly, to learn from it and link with it. Deaton drew in the four symbols of the elements: _uruz_ , _ansuz_ , _kano_ , and _laguz_ : Earth, Air, Fire, and Water. These were the symbols that lent life to a circle and invoked a connection to the powers that be that Stiles would travel along like a path. Deaton also added the symbols for _sowelu,_ the sun, and _teiwaz_ , light’s victory over darkness, to help Stiles find what he was looking for.

The power he was after was that of the sun itself. The spell he had found would make him a vessel for its light and warmth and fire. He had shied away from most of the fire spells; this one seemed like it at least wouldn't manifest in flames or make him smell like soot and ash. That was the last thing he wanted.

"Ready?" Deaton asked.

Stiles nodded firmly, just once.

"All right. Remember to relax. And careful not to get sunburned."

"Ha ha," Stiles said sarcastically.

"It's funny you think I'm joking," Deaton said as he extinguished the match he held with a flick.

Stiles's eyes widened and he resolutely took the mage's words to heart.

"Here we go."

Deaton closed the circle with one last stroke of chalk and Stiles's vision blacked out. He wasn't unconscious though. Fully awake and fully alert Stiles let himself be pulled through the nothingness landscape. This darkness was not the darkness that the Pale Lady thrived in. That darkness was empty and bleak, cold and wanton, constantly trying to drag you in and swallow you. This darkness was filled with warmth and ribbons of magic that danced around Stiles's body, inviting him to dance with them, each one carrying a different piece of knowledge, a different dance step to teach. Bursts of color sprang up like fireworks and Stiles's followed them, knowing they would lead him to his destination.

They did not disappoint.

A blinding flash of light greeted Stiles and though his body was more spiritual than physical in this realm he threw his arm over his eyes anyway. As it was, he winced against it until it dulled to something more bearable. The presence in front of him was strong and burning hot. Deaton was right about being careful of sunburn.

"Hi," Stiles said, a bubble of sound that floated into the murk.

A pulse surged through the air in response.

"I'd like your help. See, there's this monster going around killing all these bright, creative people. And we can't have that, can we? So, I was going to stop it."

The surface of the light churned.

"I'm glad you agree. So. Will you help me? Will you come with me? And stay with me?" Stiles asked, reaching out a hand slightly, palm down, but open.

The light shifted and twitched, convulsing. Then, without warning it rushed Stiles. He barely had time to gasp before light was spilling into his mouth and down his throat. It was like swallowing red-hot liquid steel, it tore apart his insides. Stiles’s eyes burned from the inside out, he felt as though his eyelids were peeling away. Tears that boiled spilled down his face and scalded his skin. But, he held his ground and let the light take him.

When it settled and no longer felt molten, Stiles gasped in a breath. Something like glitter blew out of his mouth when he coughed and he stared, startled by it. The presence in him, now resting, resembled how it feels when you drink a very hot drink on a very cold day. It felt good.

Stiles blinked and saw the walls of the vet's office again.

"Welcome back." Deaton came around to stand in front of him.

"How long was I out?"

"About two and half hours."

"Did I mumble this time?"

"No," Deaton said, bemused smirk gracing his lips.

With a goofy grin Stiles said, "Sweet."

Embarrassingly, the first couple of times Stiles had entered a trance-state he had been so freaked out by it, he mumbled incoherently in the real world until Deaton had been able to lead him back. Basically, it had been Stiles-babble on drugs. Deaton, who always waited with Stiles each time he went under to ensure he came back out, had told Scott, who had not let that go for quite a while.

"Well?" Deaton asked. "Did you have any luck?"

"Yeah," Stiles said, and his grin made him look older than he was.

It didn't surprise Deaton that Stiles had succeeded. The teen was a treasure, when it came to witchcraft. One of a kind. Even if he didn't fully realize it yet.

Even if no one did.

"Glad to hear it," Deaton said. A smile crept onto his lips and Stiles frowned.

"What?"

"You might look in a mirror."

Stiles darted over to the sink and the mirror that hung above it. He gasped when he saw himself.

"I am _bright_ pink!"

Deaton couldn't stifle a chuckle. "I warned you about the sunburn."

"But, I was careful!" Stiles protested. He groaned. "Oh man…it's covering every inch of my body, isn't it?"

"I imagine so, yes."

"Well, that's a hard one to explain."

"I suggest purchasing some aloe vera gel on your way home."

Stiles groaned again, louder this time. "Stupid sun."

"Stiles."

Deaton's tone drew Stiles's attention immediately.

The veterinarian asked, "How do you feel?"

Stiles paused. Deaton was checking to make sure he could handle having the power of the sun camping out in his body.

Stiles took a moment to really check. He replied, "Like I've been wrapped up in a blanket fresh out of the dryer."

Deaton smiled. "So, no adverse side effects?"

"None so far. I'll keep you in the loop, if I start feeling…off."

"Thank you. That's all I ask."

"Yeah, I know you worry," Stiles said, grinning. "Thanks for helping, Doc. See ya later."

"Goodbye, Stiles."

~~~

Derek came in the window around 9:00 p.m. and stopped short, blinking at Stiles.

"What?” Stiles asked, then, realized, “Oh. The sunburn."

"What happened?"

"I was successful, I promise. I just had a little side effect."

Derek frowned at him and Stiles held up his hands in a placating gesture.

"Really, it's just a sunburn. This honestly isn't even as bad as it was earlier, it’s already fading. No worries. It's bound to happen, when you fuse with the sun."

"So, it worked?"

"Oh, totally," Stiles said and held up a hand to demonstrate. Light danced across his fingers for a few seconds and then Stiles closed his fist to extinguish it. “Pretty cool, huh?”

Derek’s eyebrows shot up and he came forward. “That doesn’t hurt at all?”

“Nope,” Stiles said with a pop at the end. “The sunburn doesn’t even hurt honestly, which is a little strange, but then again, I’m sort of the sun. I think it’s mainly for show.”

“Hm.” Derek reached out and ran a finger over Stiles’s forearm.

Stiles watched it and then glanced up at Derek from beneath his lashes. “You know,” he began, “I was actually going to go take a hot shower to, uh, release the heat. From the burn, I mean. And then put some aloe vera gel on. Some help would be nice.”

Derek’s eyes caught his and Stiles was pleased to see desire in them.

“Stiles...” he warned.

“Dad won’t be home tonight. Night shift.”

“Is this really the time for this? When you’re in the middle of fighting a dream demon?”

“Is there ever really a better time for this in our lives, Derek? I mean, _really_.”

Derek had to concede that point. “In that case I’d be glad to give you a hand.”

Stiles grinned and Derek could not believe how attracted to it he was. Stiles’s shirt came off before their mouths even met, wet and open, and they only paused so Derek could pull his off, too. Derek toed off his shoes and plunged into Stiles’s mouth. Stiles responded with noises that went straight to Derek’s groin and even the issue of walking to the bathroom did little to slow them. Derek simply lifted Stiles by the thighs and Stiles took his cue to wrap his arms around Derek’s neck and his legs around Derek’s waist. The older man’s hands moved to Stiles’s ass and he gasped and dug his fingernails into Derek’s shoulders when he used the leverage to grind their hips together.

Stiles was hard, aching already. He could feel his erection pressing into Derek’s and he wanted their pants off more than anything right now. Derek’s tongue was in his mouth, so speaking was kind of out, but Derek seemed to understand what he wanted when Stiles tapped his back frantically with one hand.

Derek got them to the bathroom and pushed Stiles up against the door as soon as it was closed. Stiles bit at Derek’s mouth, hungry, and Derek’s tongue licked deeply into his mouth once more before he dropped Stiles’s legs letting the teen’s feet hit the ground. Derek bit across Stiles’s jaw, down his neck, his chest, while his hands worked at the fly of his jeans. The offending clothing hit the floor a second later, boxers and all, and Stiles ran his hands through Derek’s hair, before leaning in for a messy kiss.

“Yours, too,” he breathed out. “Yours, too.”

Derek was not wearing underwear and his jeans came off easily under his eager hands. Now both completely naked, Stiles’s hands gripped Derek’s hips and pulled them together. The friction of their bare cocks against one another was sinfully delicious and Stiles couldn’t stand how long it had been since they had done this, all because of something so stupid.

“Shower,” he mumbled, head thrown back as Derek worked at replicating the hickeys he had left on Stiles’s throat last time.

“Got it,” Derek answered, even as his hips undulated with Stiles’s.

He walked them over to the shower and reached out a hand to find the knob. The water burst out from the shower head a split second later and Derek’s hand returned to Stiles’s side, his fingers stroking across the grooves of Stiles’s ribs.

Stiles gasped and shuddered and moaned under Derek’s hands, travelling across his torso, kneading the flesh of his ass, pulling him as close as physically possible.

Derek’s hand shot out into the water and finding it warm, he hoisted Stiles up by the thighs again and stepped into the shower with him. Stiles jolted when the water hit his skin, it felt cold in the wake of how hot his skin was.

He adjusted quickly and leaned in to nibble at Derek’s ear and the hinge of his jaw. Derek rumbled and his hands slipped down to cup Stiles’s ass again.

“Stiles,” he breathed out, just before a finger pressed lightly against Stiles’s hole.

He was asking for permission, which Stiles gladly gave. “Do it,” he said against Derek’s ear.

Derek braced his back against the slick wall behind him and shoved a finger in. Stiles cried out at the foreign sensation, his brain not quite processing it. Then, Derek started to move the finger, in and out, in and out, and Stiles’s whole body melted into the pleasurable movement. It was only a minute before Derek added a second finger and immediately crooked both of them inside Stiles.

Stiles’s back spasmed and he jerked forward, landing on Derek’s chest and panting heavily, his forehead finding Derek’s shoulder.

“Derek, _god_...”

Derek’s head turned so he could nip at Stiles’s jaw before adding a third finger, and _holy god_ , a _fourth_. That’s all it took, Stiles felt overstimulated and soaring when Derek picked up the pace and it wasn’t long before he came in a hot burst of shuddery sensation and pleasure. Derek’s hand didn’t slow and he pounded Stiles’s through the orgasm, only pulling his hand away when Stiles’s legs dropped limply to the ground and he needed both hands to support him in the slippery shower.

Stiles finally stopped seeing stars and looked up into Derek’s eyes, which were dark with lust. Stiles mouthed at his chin and said, hand sliding down to Derek’s throbbing erection, “Let me...”

Derek kissed him hard and then released his hold on Stiles so the teen could move. He was not expecting Stiles to slide down his body and put his mouth on Derek’s cock. Derek groaned when hot lips kissed at his head and his hands flew to Stiles’s head, gripping at his hair.

Stiles licked a stripe up Derek’s dick, getting as much of the taste as he could, before closing his mouth over the head.

“Oh, god, _Stiles_ ,” Derek gasped.

Stiles’s head bobbed and he moved down on Derek’s cock swiftly, the head pressing into the back of his throat. He couldn’t take any more than that, he wasn’t experienced enough, but he did what he could with what he had and hollowed his cheeks and Derek’s nails scraped over his scalp.

Derek came with a grunt and Stiles lapped it up, ridiculously greedy about it. Derek would have commented, but he was far too high for coherency right now. Stiles crawled back up his chest and turned his head to rest on Derek’s shoulder again, arms folded between their chests and fingers curling and uncurling softly against his skin.

“Jesus, Stiles...” Derek managed after a minute.

“You started it,” Stiles said.

That’s not true. That’s not true _at all_. Stiles started it. With his loyalty and determination and pink lips and clear eyes. But, he figured Stiles was referring to tonight. Derek would take the blame for that one.

“I’d do it again,” Derek said.

“Good. I expect you, too. But, maybe next time...not your fingers...” Stiles offered, eyes on his fingers tracing Derek’s collarbone.

Derek let that sink in for a moment and then said, “Definitely.”

Stiles smiled up at him, eyelashes wet with water from the shower and lips red from Derek’s cock and mouth. Derek couldn’t give this up if his life depended on it.

“Come on. Rinse off,” Derek said. “Let’s dry off and get you to bed. You’ve got ass to kick.”

Stiles hummed. “That I do," he agreed and pried himself off of Derek.

~~~

The evening's nightmare featured Peter again, this time trying to rip Derek apart limb from limb. It was easy to summon Allison to shoot him in the throat with an arrow. Stiles smirked triumphantly before he destroyed the dream's landscape and came awake in the real world. Derek was there, waiting patiently. Stiles told him that he had everything under control, that he felt powerful now. The Pale Lady wouldn't get to him anymore. Derek shook his head at him, but he was smiling when he retreated out the window, leaving the teen to fall back asleep, warm and content.

~~~

When Stiles woke up at 5:47 the next morning, he was not happy.

"What. The hell."

He blinked a few times, but he already knew he was _wide_ awake. Like a switch had been flipped.

There was sunlight streaming in through a crack in his curtains and he sighed heavily as he made the connection.

"Sunrise," he said. "Apparently, I rise when you do. Great."

Stiles settled in with a bowl of cereal and early morning cartoons and waited until someone he could talk to was awake, wondering if he would adjust or if he was doomed to wake at sunrise for all of time. On the plus side the sunburn had vanished completely.

His dad came down at 8:30 and frowned when he saw Stiles on the couch.

"You're up early for a summer day."

"Yes, I am."

The Sheriff's eyes narrowed. "Any particular reason?"

Stiles shook his head slowly, trying to look innocent. "Nope. None that I can think of."

"Stiles."

Stiles deflated. He was caught, he might as well give it up. "I may or may not have fused with the power of the sun and may or may not wake up at sunrise now."

The Sheriff sighed. "What does that mean exactly?"

"It means…I'm better equipped to fight the things that go bump in the night. What with basically being the definition of daytime now."

"So, you're the sun?"

Stiles shrugged. "Sort of? I mean technically it's all inside me, but the power's all the same—"

The Sheriff held out a hand. "Stop. Just…stop right there." He took a deep breath and tried again. "Are you harming yourself by "being one with the sun"?"

"No."

"That's all I need to know. Try not to break anything." John waved a hand as he moved on to the kitchen.

Stiles smiled. That was his dad's usual disclaimer for most things Stiles did, whether he understood them or not. Admittedly, it was usually more of the latter.

~~~

A few hours later found him at the animal clinic again, talking things through with Deaton.

“Turning on the lights ends the dreams. But, it doesn’t kill her. And I’m pretty sure the goal here is to be rid of this thing forever.”

“So, your question is “how do we kill her”?” Deaton asked.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, chewing his bottom lip thoughtfully. “I mean how am I supposed to bring my awesome powers of the sun into a dream?”

“You can’t,” Deaton responded simply.

“Wow, just shoot me down, Doc.”

“I don’t mean to be discouraging, Stiles. But, it’s the truth: you can’t. Your “sun powers” are bound to this world, where the sun that is bound to you exists. You can only access them here.”

“So, I’d have to bring her here...” Stiles’s expression changed like someone flipped on the lights. “The burn,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“The burns on the victims’ bodies,” Stiles clarified. “On each of the victims’ chests there were these strange burns. Fingerprints from her touching them.”

“She burns you if she touches you?”

“Yeah. Which is kind of ironic considering, the whole anti-fire-and-light thing she’s got going on. But, then extreme cold can leave burns as well.”

Deaton squinted at Stiles. “Stiles. How do you know that?”

“I don’t have those and it’s been like a week, so it must happen closer to when she takes them. But, they’re not dreaming when they go out to the woods—they’re just out of their minds crazy.”

Deaton made a face when Stiles completely skimmed over his question. But, he moved on. He had to if he was going to keep up with Stiles when he was like this.

“So, she must touch them when they’re in the woods...right before she kills them.” Stiles snapped sharply over to Deaton. “She can be here when she’s sucking their souls out. That makes sense, right? Because otherwise how would she get to them? You can’t get to a soul in a dream. Oh my god, why didn’t I see this sooner? We can get her when she’s here reaping. Oh my god, wait. That’s why she makes people go crazy first! Because when you’re crazy you hallucinate! Which is kind of like dreaming! That’s how she does it! Hallucination is like a waking dream that she can enter! This makes so much sense! Ha! Thanks, Doc.”

Stiles clapped Deaton on the shoulder and then, turned to go.

“Stiles,” Deaton called. “What are you planning to do exactly?”

Stiles looked back at the veterinarian and Deaton could see the lie there before it left his lips.

“I don’t know yet. But, I’ll figure it out. Later, Deaton.”

And he was gone.

Deaton sighed. That certainly didn’t bode well. Especially if he knew Stiles Stilinski. And he did. Knowing Stiles, he wouldn’t be bothered by his plan resulting in getting himself hurt. Not to mention he knew the burns were from being touched by her. To Deaton it sounded like he’d already gotten himself hurt. As uncharacteristic as it was for him, he had to intervene.

Deaton picked up his phone and placed an important phone call.

~~~

Stiles was stooped over a spell book, cross-legged on the floor when Derek climbed through his window that night. He didn’t even glance at the werewolf. Which is why he missed the unhappier than usual expression on Derek’s face.

“What are you doing?”

Stiles’s head did whip up, then. “Oh, Derek. Hey. I was seeing if you could bottle energy from the sun?”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Can you?”

“Don’t know yet,” Stiles answered, nose already buried in the tome again.

“Do you need a break?” Derek asked, bending to grab Stiles’s chin and force him to look up at him again.

“Wha...?” Stiles asked, brain not really fully online with what was happening in front of him.

“I asked,” Derek said slowly, fingers sliding along Stiles’s jaw, “do...you need...a break?”

“Wh—I—wh—yeah, okay.” Stiles clambered to his feet, book falling forgotten to one side.

Derek smiled at him a little, which really should have set off a warning bell in Stiles’s head right then and there—it was very reminiscent of the time he charmed his way into the police station—but he was rather blinded by teenage hormones at the moment and the only bells going off were certainly not in his head.

Derek slipped Stiles’s open button-up off of his shoulders and leaned in to nip at his lips a little. Stiles breathed out in little gasps, shivering when Derek’s hands slid up under his t-shirt.

“Derek...” he murmured.

“Hm?” Derek hummed, running his lips along Stiles’s jaw without actually applying any pressure.

“Let’s...”

Whatever Stiles had been on the verge of saying was brutally cut short when Derek stripped his shirt right off of him in one quick, smooth motion.

Stiles gasped when broad, warm hands ran down his chest, his stomach, skimmed up to his arms, over his shoulders.

And then Derek flipped him around suddenly, violently, in a way that reminded Stiles of their early days of acquaintanceship. Strong hands gripped either of his biceps and held him in place. A displeased growl sounded as soon as Derek got a good look at him.

That was when Stiles realized what he was seeing. Where he was looking. He was staring at Stiles’s back where the burns left by the Pale Lady’s touch were creeping up his neck.

“Derek...” Stiles said cautiously.

“When were you going to mention these, Stiles?” Derek demanded.

Stiles paused. “Deaton ratted me out, huh?”

“No. He didn’t. But, he told me what you said and I figured it out on my own. She touched you. She burned you!” Derek said, furious. “How long have you had these?”

“It’s fine. They’re fine. They don’t—“

“ _How long?_ ” Derek roared.

Stiles flinched and then took a calming breath before saying, “ _Since the first night_.”

Derek snarled and flipped Stiles back around to face him.

“Hey!” Stiles started before Derek got the chance to. “How about we talk about how you just seduced me so you could trick me, huh? How about that?”

“Don’t act like you’ve never used me for that exact thing,” Derek spat.

Stiles guiltily thought of Danny and a drawer full of shirts that didn’t fit.

“Don’t try to make this about me, Stiles,” Derek said, fingers around Stiles’s arms getting awfully close to doing their own job of branding the boy. “This is about you. And what you are planning to do with the Pale Lady.” Derek looked Stiles in the eye, his own eyes fierce and tainted red. “What are you planning to do?”

"Look, can you just…" Stiles's eyes dropped to his hands. "I'll tell you. But, not until I’m sure I know what I'm doing."

"Do you ever really know what you're doing?"

"Do you?" Stiles shot back.

Derek didn't have a comeback for that.

"There isn't another way to do this. I've looked. There isn't. But, I'll be prepared, okay? I’m not just going to throw myself into the lion’s den without a weapon here, I promise. I am working on a plan, okay? I’m working on it.”

Derek stared at him for a long, long time. Stiles refused to waver, to back down.

Derek’s grip around his biceps finally relaxed and it slid down to Stiles’s wrists instead, holding them loosely. Derek’s head tipped forward to press his forehead against Stiles’s and just breathe for an moment.

Stiles startled at the unexpected gesture, but then he curled into it and maneuvered his hands until they were pressed into Derek’s.

“Okay,” was all Derek said, but Stiles thought he was trying to say _I don’t want to lose you._

“Okay,” Stiles said back, when really he meant _You won’t._

“What do you need me to do?” Derek asked softly.

“Be here,” Stiles replied. “When I wake up...it’s gonna be worse than before. So, I need you to be here.”

“Okay. I’ll be here.”

“Thank you...” Stiles said quietly.

“You don’t need to thank me.”

“I feel like I do.”

“I’d be here anyway, you know.”

Stiles laughed once. “Yeah, you would."

“Always...Okay?”

There was that promise again. Stiles looked up into Derek’s eyes to find he was already looking at him. He liked what he saw there in Derek’s steady green gaze, liked the way that promise looked there. Liked how much he meant it.

“Okay.”

The teen angled his mouth toward Derek’s and was infinitely pleased when Derek did the same and their mouths met sweetly.

It was an uncomplicated kiss, the kind that said more than a million words ever could. It was Stiles’s favorite kiss so far.

They pulled apart so they could look at each other properly.

Stiles smiled slyly and said, “You know...I think you owe me at least some cuddling for leading me on like that...”

“Put your shirt back on,” Derek said, releasing Stiles’s hands and stepping back.

Stiles sighed the exaggerated sigh typical of a teenager. “God, you are such a tease sometimes. Give me a break here.”

Derek slowly raised one eyebrow. “I didn’t say no.”

Stiles’s face brightened and he went to tackle Derek. Only to be stopped by a hand on his forehead.

“I said, put your shirt on,” Derek repeated.

“I knew you couldn’t resist me!” Stiles crowed.

Derek rolled his eyes and waited until Stiles’s shirt was safely hiding any tempting skin. Stiles was at least partially right on that account. Which he would never, ever know.

Stiles looked at Derek expectantly and if he had a tail he’d be wagging it. “Now?” the teen asked.

Derek sighed in a put-upon way before opening his arms for Stiles to rush into. Which Stiles promptly did.

~~~

They fell asleep like that, Derek curled around Stiles. The night came and it wasn’t nearly long enough before the nightmare began.

It was drowning again. This time Stiles was at the bottom of the school’s pool and a weight chained around him was keeping him there. He reached for the surface, screamed for someone to help him, but there was no one. He thought about summoning someone to pull him out only for an instant. No. He had to let her win this one. So he could beat her in her final battle.

He woke up gasping for air. Derek's hands on him were the only thing that kept him from hyperventilating.

"I thought you could handle the dreams now," Derek said, once Stiles was calm.

"I can," Stiles said and left it at that. "Let's go back to sleep."

He wasn't lying, but something about the situation seemed wrong to Derek. He should probably leave like he usually did, but that feeling of wrongness was compelling him to stay, so he laid down and went back to sleep. When he woke up in the morning he realized that Stiles had never fallen back asleep.

~~~

The next day Stiles had an announcement to make.

Scott, Isaac, Derek, and the Sheriff gathered together in the Stilinski living room, when prompted and Stiles addressed them professionally and not at all like what he was about to say was completely insane.

"I'm going to let her drive me insane."

"What?" Scott shrieked.

This is exactly what Derek had been afraid of.

"I'm going to let her do it," Stiles said. "I'm going to stop fighting her and let the dreams take their toll. When she comes for me, she'll be in between realms and I'll be able to use my sun powers to kill her, then and only then. It's the only way."

The Sheriff was shaking his head. "No," he said. "No, Stiles. That is the most ludicrous idea I have ever—"

Stiles very calmly interrupted and said, "Does anyone else have any ideas that have even a small chance of success?"

The room stared back at him in silence.

"My point exactly. Really, this is our only option. I don't like it just as much as the rest of you, but it's what we're doing."

Isaac shrugged. "Doesn't bother me that much."

The glare Derek turned on him had his beta shrinking away.

"What do you need us to do?" Scott asked Stiles.

"I need you to...well, keep an eye on me. Make sure I don't try to...hurt anyone...or myself."

"What exactly do you think you'll do?" John asked.

"I'm not sure. But, the other victims led _normal_ lives. Their nightmares were made up of spiders and stuff like that. Mine aren't made of spiders. And I don't really know what they're going to do to me, once I let them...win."

"They're not going to win though," Scott said. "You're going to be okay. In the end. Right?"

"Right," Stiles said and none of the werewolves knew how he kept his heart that steady when he didn't mean that in the slightest. "But, I'm going to need all of you to be there, when I start wandering off into the woods. I have a plan."

There was a collective sigh and then, the Sheriff said, "Lay it on us."

~~~

The symptoms started slowly. Gradually. Inconspicuously.

First, it was glimpses of white, a chill in a place where chills should be impossible, a whisper of sound that Stiles thought he was imagining at first, but knew with startling clarity that he wasn’t.

The Pale Lady was strangely absent from his nightmares, but it was only because she was succeeding. She had a tighter hold on him and Stiles was starting to slip.

He found himself more and more paranoid each day.

Scott made the mistake of sneaking up on him in the kitchen, while he was preparing dinner the day after he dreamed about being buried alive by Gerard and almost got a knife in his chest for his trouble.

“Whoa! Stiles, it’s me! It’s me!” Scott protested, eyes darting between the knife and Stiles’s face.

Stiles’s eyes held a crazed edge for another beat. Then, he snapped out of it and pulled away from Scott, bumping up against the counter. “I...I’m sorry. I’m just tired. Sorry.”

Scott grimaced. “That looks like more than just tired to me.”

“Yeah, I...guess so.”

Scott looked extremely unhappy, but he simply squeezed Stiles’s shoulder and took the knife out of his hand, saying, “How about I finish dinner?”

Stiles nodded and sunk into a chair at the table.

~~~

Stiles stopped breathing the third night. Derek remembered that he had done the same thing the first night Derek had been a wolf. What was it Stiles had said? Something about sleep apnea and high stress causing it? God, how could he have forgotten? It hadn’t happened but the one time and Derek had just let it go as a singular occurrence, nothing to worry about later. But, Stiles had said it himself: it was a recurring problem. And if anything could trigger the condition it would be whatever Stiles was dealing with in these dreams.

Derek shook him, shouted at him, threw water on him, couldn't break him out of it. Stiles's heartbeat was slowing and Derek was _failing again_ , _goddammit_. In an act of desperation Derek did the only thing he could think of and bit Stiles on the shoulder as hard as he could with dull human teeth. When blood sprang forth, Stiles jerked back into consciousness with a scream.

Tears were rushing hot down his face and he was panicking. Derek cupped his face and tried to get him to focus on him. Eventually Derek's soothing broke through and Stiles calmed enough to tamp down on the hysterics. He finally noticed the pain in his shoulder and glanced at it.

His eyes came up wide and hurt and betrayed, when he looked at Derek.

"You bit me?” he whimpered, then with building rage, “You _bit_ me? Oh, god, am I going to turn? Derek—"

"No!" Derek jumped in to cut off the rising tide of Stiles's emotions. "I wasn't shifted. You're fine. You're not going to turn."

Stiles breathed harshly through his nose for a several long seconds, watching Derek like he was a wild animal that was going to attack him at any minute.

"Fine? _Fine?_ I am not fine, I am bleeding!" Stiles screeched and Derek flinched back.

The werewolf rallied himself and informed the witch, "You weren't breathing again, I had to do something!"

"You didn't have to bite me!" Stiles said and threw the covers back, rising from the bed. He immediately went down and Derek was quick to catch him. As soon as he brought Stiles back up to him, the teen collapsed and curled into him.

"I'm so scared," he admitted. "I'm so scared and I-I can't...control myself...anymore. I'm sorry."

Derek hushed him softly. "Let's get you cleaned up."

Stiles nodded and then wrapped his arms around Derek's neck, a clear indication that he didn't trust his legs to carry him just then. Derek obliged more than willingly and carried Stiles to the bathroom and its first aid kit.

While Derek dressed his wound, Stiles stayed miserably silent. He was a mess. Covered in blood and tears. Derek felt a shaft of guilt go through him like an arrow piercing his heart. Stiles was doing this, because no one else could do a damn thing about it. Dreams were a realm untouchable by mere beasts of the earth. Only someone with Stiles's bright gift could challenge the Pale Lady.

It wasn't really anybody's fault, but Derek still felt like it was all his.

The two of them laid there beside one another, wordless and pathetic and awake, for the rest of the night.

~~~

Stiles woke up screaming for his father the next night.

He wouldn't stop, no matter what Derek did. He was fully awake, so splashing water did nothing except make him scream louder. He shook him, he hugged him, he rubbed his back, and pet his hair. Nothing stopped the wails.

For lack of anything better to try Derek wrapped Stiles up in his comforter, stole the keys off the dresser, and put him in the backseat of his Jeep. He headed for the station.

It was 4:07 when he pulled into the parking lot. Mercifully, it was a quiet night and all the on-duty officers were inside the building instead of their cruisers. Derek hoped Stiles's screaming would be muffled by the Jeep enough to not draw attention. Neither the volume nor frequency had lessened during their journey.

A quick check for his heartbeat confirmed that the Sheriff was inside. Blowing in through the front door Derek tried to appear less like a serial killer, as Stiles put it, knowing he wouldn't be able to charm his way in this time when he noticed the deputy behind the counter wasn't a young, pretty female.

The young man, probably Derek's age, looked up at him when he entered and frowned.

"I need to speak with the Sheriff," Derek said, not in the proper state of mind to use normal greetings.

"Why would Derek Hale need to see the Sheriff?" the deputy asked. His name was said like an accusation.

"It's important and it's none of your business," Derek growled. "Would you please just let him know I’m here?"

The deputy looked like he was going to argue, but then Derek rose to his full height and dared him to just with the look in his eye. Wisely, the officer picked up the phone.

Putting the receiver to his shoulder he gave Derek a look full of attitude and drawled, "May I ask what this is about?"

"Just call him!" Derek roared.

The man jumped and hastily pressed a few keys.

"Sheriff, Derek Hale is here at the front," he said and if he said Derek's name like that one more time Derek was going to reach across that counter, badge and gun be damned. He continued without pause, "I can send him away if you—Oh. Oh, okay."

Deputy Douchebag set the phone back in its cradle and pursed his lips in displeasure when he looked back at Derek. He said, "He's coming up."

Derek didn't bother to say thank you.

"Derek," John said coming through the door. "What's happening?"

"I'd like to speak with you outside," Derek said, tone flat, but eyes meaningful.

The Sheriff was not the Sheriff by grace and he nodded and said, "Of course. We can step out. I'll just be a few, Garrett."

The deputy said, "Yessir, Sheriff," but eyed them with suspicion as they exited the station.

"What—" the Sheriff began, but stopped when Derek grabbed his elbow and began steering him toward Stiles's Jeep.

That was when he registered the screaming.

"Oh, god," he said and darted ahead of Derek.

The Sheriff flung open the door and climbed in without hesitation. Derek returned to the driver's seat and turned to look at the Stilinskis in crisis in the back.

"Stiles. Stiles, I’m here. It’s Dad. I’m here," the Sheriff said, putting hands on Stiles's face, his shoulders, his hair. "Stiles, I'm here!"

Stiles's attention swung over to his father long enough for him to realize he was in front of him. Finally, the screams stopped. The silence in its wake was deafening and Derek had the strong urge to turn on the radio when no one said anything.

A broken noise came out of Stiles and he whispered, "Dad?"

"Yeah, son. It's me. I'm here."

Stiles's breath hitched and between one blink and the next he was curled in his father's arms, shaking apart.

Derek took a deep breath and carefully met the Sheriff's eyes.

Sheriff Stilinski looked wrecked. He gripped his son like a lifeline, like he wouldn't let go of him even if God or the Devil himself walked up and told him to.

"Thank you for bringing him here," John said quietly.

Derek gave a short nod and knew what the Sheriff really wanted to say. He wanted to scream and to shout that they weren't doing this anymore, that this was too dangerous, that they weren't going to endanger Stiles like this anymore.

But, he didn't. Because he trusted Stiles. And he trusted Derek.

~~~

It had been four nights since Stiles had stopped fighting her, four nights since he let go. By his math the two nightmares in which he had failed with the Jeep and the fire had counted toward his ultimate insanity. So that made six nights down out of eight.

Stiles wouldn't eat.

It was wordlessly agreed that Stiles was to be under twenty-four hour watch. He was jumpy and pale and everyone was tense around him. Derek almost couldn’t handle it when Stiles knocked away the glass of water Derek brought him and proceeded to try to pull out his own hair. The whole dying of malnourishment and dehydration thing was certainly starting to make a lot of sense.

When he attacked Derek as he shot out of bed and almost broke his hand on Derek's jaw, the Sheriff finally snapped and yelled furiously, just let out all his frustrations and fears. Stiles was too far gone to understand any of it, he was barely himself. He had gotten scared and tried to run, but Derek had cut him off before he could get in the Jeep and dragged him screaming back to the house.

The next night was the last night. Stiles had already explained the plan in full before he had slipped away completely. Derek, Scott, Isaac, and even Peter were all in his bedroom waiting for what would happen. Stiles had told his father to work that night, because he wasn't sure how bad it would get and they only had one shot at this. Considering the previous night that was undoubtedly a wise decision.

The four werewolves watched as Stiles slumbered. Peacefully, at least for now.

Isaac said, "So what happens if this doesn't work?"

"Shut up," Derek said and Isaac obliged, shooting a look at Scott, who winced at him and shook his head a little. No one wanted to think about what would happen to Stiles if this didn't work.

Peter glanced at his nephew and said, "We _should_ be worrying about that, you know. Our window of opportunity is very small and also very dependent on our nutcase here," he nodded at Stiles. "I mean, this could hardly be a worse plan."

Derek glared at Peter and Scott piped up, "Quit being so pessimistic, Peter. You're not helping. Why are you here again?”

"Because Derek figured you could use all the help you could get. And I'm not being pessimistic, I'm being _realistic_. Stiles is completely mad. And he's exhausted on top of that. Have you forgotten he was fighting her for days, before he let her start winning? This is what, the twelfth night he's been having dream battles?"

Derek said, "Peter. Shut up. And follow the plan."

"Fine," Peter said, but his expression reflected how disagreeable this whole thing seemed to him. Although truthfully, the werewolf believed their chances for success were pretty high. If anyone could pull this off, it would be Stiles.

A sharp intake of breath drew everyone's attention. Stiles's heart rate was off the charts in a manner of seconds and it was not long after that that Peter had to place a hand on Derek to keep him from touching him.

"Let it happen. All of you. Don't touch him. Don't get in his way," Peter instructed.

Everyone waited, tense and ready. Scott's eyes were glowing and he couldn't get them to stop.

Stiles shot out of bed in the next moment, wild-eyed and completely terrified. He was drenched in sweat and breathing in short, frantic breaths. He looked around his room and the werewolves stayed very still. He didn't seem to see them and he headed for the door instead, Isaac stepping out of his way.

They followed him down the stairs, out the back door, eight blocks into the woods. Stiles was clearly living the nightmare, caught somewhere between sleep-walking and a trance. He walked at least a mile, barefoot, and the group was only getting more and more anxious with each step he took.

Finally, he stopped. This spot seemed no different than any other part of the woods, but it was apparently the right place. Stiles turned around and looked out into the trees, eyes glazed and unseeing. Then, a chill descended upon them and hung heavily in the air, clinging to their bodies as if it had fingers. Their breaths were visible as they all exchanged nervous glances.

Then, she was there, standing right in front of them, only a few feet from Stiles. Her eyes were focused on her victim, wickedly intent on taking what she so desired. Stiles for his part couldn't run, stuck to the spot she had put him in and he shook violently as his mouth tried to form words or screams or _anything_.

"Everybody ready?" Derek muttered under his breath.

With a nod from each of them, they all pulled out the jars Stiles had given each of them. The Pale Lady advanced on Stiles, her hand coming up to touch his chest.

"Hey!" Scott shouted and she froze, turning to look at them with fury on her face. "Eat sunlight, bitch!"

With that Peter, Isaac, and Scott all threw their jars at the woman. They exploded on the ground near her feet and small flashes of sunlight courtesy of Stiles flared up and blinded her. Turned out you could bottle sunlight. She screeched and stumbled, but she didn't go anywhere, which was both a good and bad thing. Good, because she was still there and they could kill her, and bad, because the sunlight grenades weren’t nearly as effective as they had thought they would be. Derek was beside Stiles in the blink of an eye and he brought his jar up in front of Stiles and smashed it between his hands.

“Stiles, _wake up_!”

The bright flash, a false dawn as Stiles had theorized, did the trick and Stiles surged back into himself, disoriented as hell, but he was himself again. The distraction had worked and the Pale Lady’s hold had been broken on him, temporarily, at least.

"Stiles!" Derek said and the teen turned to look at him. "The Pale Lady!"

Stiles’s eyes drew over to her and everything felt like it was happening in slow motion for him. The Pale Lady rounded on him, furious and vengeful. She lunged for him, but Stiles found his speed and grabbed her arms before she could touch him. His hands glowed and the monster quickly realized that something was wrong when _she_ was the one whose skin began to burn. She tried to pull away, but Stiles wouldn't let her.

He gritted his teeth and said, "Welcome to your worst nightmare."

The power of the sun rushed through his veins and his whole body lit up before a blast of light spread over the area in a great, percussive blow, like a bomb had gone off. The werewolves shielded their eyes, but they heard the pained, inhuman screech at the center of the flare. The light disappeared back into its source, gone in an instant like a bubble bursting.

Derek was seeing spots, all the wolves were, but he looked for Stiles. He found him crumpled in a heap on the ground and ran to him, kneeling in the baked earth and twigs.

"Stiles!"

He flipped him over and Stiles blinked blearily at him, dazed, but fine. He was fine. A little malnourished, a lot tired, but he was _okay_. Derek almost broke under the wave of relief that washed over him.

"Derek…?" Stiles asked, mind clearly muddled. "Holy crap. Did that work?"

"Yes. Yes, it worked," Derek said, gripping Stiles’s wrist tightly. "You killed her. She's gone."

And she was. Only a smoldering scorch mark was left where she had stood. She would never take another soul again. Stiles had made sure of it.

Whatever Derek and Stiles were about to say next was interrupted when Scott snorted. Stiles looked over at him, confused, and Derek scowled.

"What?" Stiles asked.

"Dude, you're sunburned," Scott said, trying to hold in his snickering. Isaac was laughing outright and Peter, too, was smiling a little.

Stiles looked down at himself. Sure enough, he was bright pink. Again. "Oh, man! I have got to get that under control!"

Derek smiled at him fondly and offered him a hand up. It wasn't the first time he'd seen this.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

"Not really?" Stiles said, poking at an arm. "It’s like last time. More like a warm, cooked feeling than a sore, stingy one."

"It might hurt tomorrow," Derek said. “That was a lot of sunlight.”

"Yeah, but that's tomorrow. Tonight—I have won! Told you my plan would work!"

Varying degrees of head-shaking and eye-rolling travelled around the group. Stiles laughed bright and mirthful and Derek had a warm feeling, too, just not on his skin.

Peter excused himself, offering to take Isaac back to the loft. Scott left, too, but not before slapping Stiles on the back once. Really hard.

"You asshole! That really hurt!" Stiles yelled after him as Scott ran away laughing. "Geez," Stiles said fondly and then looked at Derek. "I'm okay," he said softly.

“Yeah,” Derek said, snaking an arm around his waist and kissing him gently.

Derek got him home, got him fed, got him hydrated. A phone call was placed to the Sheriff to let him know that it had worked and everyone was okay. Derek was pretty sure the older man might have been holding back tears on the other end of the line, but he didn’t say anything about it and neither did Stiles. Upstairs, Stiles showered quickly to wash away the sweat and dirt. When he went to apply aloe vera gel to his skin, Derek noticed that the handprint on his neck was gone, superseded by the sunburn.

"Good news all around," Stiles said, looping his arms around Derek's neck and grinning.

"You are greasy and sunburned and _exhausted_ ," Derek said, clearly seeing through Stiles's ways. "You are going to bed."

"Aw, come on, Derek. I'm alive! We should celebrate!"

"We should sleep," Derek countered.

Stiles sighed dramatically. "You are no fun," he said.

Derek looked at him for a moment, then said, "I could have lost you tonight."

"No," Stiles said, shaking his head. The teasing expression fell away and a soft one took its place. "Never. You'll never lose me, Derek."

"Promise?" Derek asked, pressing his forehead to Stiles's.

"Promise," Stiles said.

They moved into a kiss, slow and gentle, an undercurrent of comfort to it. Derek needed confirmation that Stiles was there in his arms, alive and whole. That he was there to stay. He found it in the soft press of lips and tongue.

He still grabbed Stiles's mischievous hands when they slipped under his shirt and held them in front of him, giving Stiles a flat look.

"Damn. Worth a shot," Stiles said.

"Bed," was all he got in response.

Stiles relented with an eye roll and crawled in, Derek close behind him. They curled into each other and Stiles’s head easily fit under Derek's chin. Their legs automatically intertwined, their arms locked securely around one another. They fell asleep in a matter of minutes.

The nightmare was finally over.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> http://mommymuffin.tumblr.com/


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